There is a struggle to reach an end point. What that point is exactly is clouded in uncertainty as it inevitable shifts.
The process becomes a frustrating endeavor. I want to be absorbed. I need to be absorbed. I want to get to the point that my mind can be there and not every where else.
I want to be trapped by it. For it to be a protective hold. It captivates in a frightening way, negating my control while simultaneously providing comfort. I become inundated. The push, desire, need for pleasure. This is the thing that I strive for without the direct proof of its sustained existence.
Zoe Clark looks, reads, smokes here. She is lucky to count her friends as family and her family as friends.