‘Indulgence’ is so taken for granted.

Complained upon, hated for the pressure it comes with

Avoided and escaped oftentimes

All so when indulgence is in abundance.

And so sometimes it decides to let us be.

To let us be, not indulged, to not sense a purpose

To soak in the remains of what is left of us without indulgence

And scrape the barrel of our core for some point to exist.

What have we, if not for the comfort of the world without?

What’s within, if not for the void that is usually filled by clutter?

If stripped of indulgence in every form, what’s left of us?

How many would make it through, if left to just their core?

Great are they who’ve filled that cup.

Ones who’d make it through if stripped of indulgence.

One’s who have a vision that fills them within.

And lets them exist, even without a defined purpose.


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