The panic, terror and grief, sorrow pierces the egg shell of my heart,
I taste the knifing of the of the egg horn of my future self struggling to hatch through,
and I breathe and do my mindfulness practice as best I can,
but it's only in the peace of the quiet morning's coffee that I can hold fast to the practice,
if the pain comes in the midst of the fractalling day, then the disassociation comes swiftly shellacking,
but it's not an epidural, it's a locking in and locking out,
and the pain-grief-terror grows but I'm not there to know it,
instead it acts through my bodyself without me -- lashing and thrashing and soothing itself by infecting those I love with it's own soulcidal self-absorption.
I invoke my triune centersource to midwife, "please oh please oh please, mother-father-sibling be-here-now help-me-drui"
and the pain comes through and I think that it will never end
and then it does
and then there is only sorrow
and then silent aching and exhaustion.
I remindfulness to be grateful for the silent aching exhaustion,
better the private pain than the bitter brittle regretting.