I can’t control these unwelcome feelings of vulnerability.
I can’t control the facts that have formed the inescapable truth.
I can’t control the constant battle between logic and faith,
emotion and authenticity.
I cannot and will not control what is the most honest of myself.
To feel, to know, to grasp.
To allow myself be consumed of what can kill.
Because at the end of this long, tedious, sensational journey I call life,
I know what kills, is worth the sufferings of hundred years.
I can’t control it.
Why should I?