The weight of the world

If I desired to remain the same, I'd never be disappointed in my inability to grow. But as it is, I'm a being motivated to change and develop, and my failures weigh heavily on my soul. Every instant in which I fall short of my potential, I feel the burdens mounting upon my shoulders. This weight presses and constrains, compresses and restrains the liberation of my mind, as mind-forged captivity consumes. To be better than the man within I must find strength beyond my reach; this is where dependency dwells. In the depths of a heavy heart, weighed down with worries and drearily dragged through disappointments, reliance is a last resort. If an imaginary figure is the sole source of salvation, then insanity is the realest response to the world's strife. As delusions abound in a world saturated with deception, nonetheless I believe. If faith is a crutch, I prefer to remain standing. The weight of my troubles presses, as this support digs in and leaves its mark. I've fallen before, yet all damage is to be repaired. If my belief is insane, then in this world I'll fit right in. If not, I eagerly await an ascension that overcomes the heaviness of the world.