9 March 2018
The heat of this pain seems to reduce me to ashes. The inescapability of it. The ISNESS of it.
Shouldn’t it burn away all my pretenses? My posturing? So I could rise, like a phoenix, free of illusions.
And yet the illusions persist.
So I must endure and accept the raw pain, and also somehow endure and accept this life of illusion, which I believe will always persist at some level.
Perhaps one can never be pure. One can only accept one’s impurity.
Vaughn's Mom 