Patience is such a lonely art.
The tangled imbalance of anxiety is a friendlier sort, pushing us back towards the people and the things that first carried us there. Where mindful disquiet will breach the deadly silence in our brains, true forbearance yet demands a forced stillness, an overpowering integrity of the soul. But neither is achievable through sheer flesh.
And mastery over our own transgressions is lonelier still, as vanity and shame tend to alternatively prevail. Leaving us little choice but to take refuge in the same false voices and imagined safe harbors that camouflage our distress.
Patience is indeed a lonely art. But one that still shapes and defines the very contours of our own humanity.
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