Story 1 Repetitive thoughts Repetitive attempts Repetitive conclusions This is truly the imperial state of discontinued belief within one’s self. The comparative subconscious that leads to solutions of no hope. The alternative to how you proceed upon your future assuming cowardicely on if you reach it. The triumphant abstract that is melancholy that immensely deteriorates the self esteem, well being and minds generous capabilities yet increases the state of guilt, suffering, self induced hurt and paranoia that lurks within yourself towards yourself. Individually you find yourself within multiple conducted simulations that all sought that singular element of positive fulfillment. But lead towards the predictable tolerated result that has been continuously thought of to be inevitable Chapter 2 Thus far there has been no fond of substitute. A version that can better this experience while compute. There is no other feeling that can resonate. Even discussing this matter with another person could startle a fearful monologue. That belittles the attempt to a tempting thought that shall not be carried out. Once again thus far. I have lost the ability of laughter and love. I have lost the enjoyment of seeing my own life progress. I focus on pain. The only element within life that feels real. What have I become The epiphany of my early death seems most pleasing to my eyes. I imagine this unseemly occasional peace/ force multiple times. There are days where committing an act of sin in fortunately optional. Yet confessing, repenting and praying feels rather impossible. Chapter 3 Pain that has been inflicted upon me in mental, verbal and physical manner seem rather fit in my perspective predicament. Yet when shall I realize that when in this melancholy state I commit dreadful cynical act’s. The one’s that derive me back towards the path that I had begun Chapter 4 Lord I do not have the reserved right to be considered one of your holy anointed son’s. I have gone through detrimental phases of thought. The trials and tribulations have taken place often, yet I only seem to fear your power and have the inability to confide and find myself through you. I now sign off knowing this has been a confession conveyed through anaphora. This is much deeper than the poetry and loss of living through creativity. This is a boy with greatly intended emotion That has transfigured into a young man with an in depth insinuation mentality. And now lives in hourly fear of his fatal reality. -Chungwa Tshomela