It's a loop de loop.
In a moment I am there, progressing and then in a moment I am not; regressing. There is a control tower somewhere in the vicinity, or is there?
It's a circular rhythm, an accelerating pace, a repetitive tune and there it goes, droning on, and on and on. Like the many sleeps, the many wakes.
If a heaven exists, I imagine it sits outside the loop de loop; outside the INFP Fi-Si loop, outside capitalism, survival modes and fights-or-flights.
I imagine that if someone is coming to save you, they handpick you from the loop, and transport you from loop 5 with a concrete chair, to loop 60 with a cushioned base.
No one is coming to save you, however - not in the way that you need. The heavy grief wells over, spilling out of your gut, through a thousand protective epithelial cells and dissipates into the cold, cold air, the gray skies, the heavy raindrops, and into the plunging river.
The hope that you hold is poison. If you carry it with you through all the loops, you'll always want to be saved. You'll always be calling into a void. You'll always hear an echo that taunts your vibrating cochlea.
The hope you're looking for is you. From loop 1 you have carried the weight of your lifeless mass through the dumps, across the glistening sea, into the sparkly night and away, away you go!
So let us go, again. You and you, alone. Through loop 35. Through loop 40, 50, on and on we go.
You'll find your way good, I promise.
So here we go.
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