Constantly, I see 222 and 555 through empath eyes. What moves within me is a mixture of vengeance, trauma and empathy. I am enlightened spiritually, transcending all that is within this realm; I am at war with otherworldly entities. I beheld the woman who gave birth to the woman who gave birth to me, lie still in peaceful sleep, and I wept sorely. The days of grace wane. Soon, there will be a time of no mercy. My lineage is not one of nobility. My blood inheritance is misery. I love deeply with all that is within me, but sustained trauma has led to a vengeful enmity for my enemies. In agony, I have wept and have not slept. In anguished breath, I have cried on engraved crystal white granite where my beloved ones are kept. I have curated the museum of my life’s story with emotional depth. I have gone through the motions of perhaps pretending to live, while secretly craving an end to torment and the hope of eternal rest. I have witnessed the futility of trying to explain the potency of my agony. I have resided many years in the unforgiving shadow of death’s valley. The sweetness of vengeance is like warm freshly baked bread paired with English tea and an even spread of raw honey. I listen to Bach’s Crucifixus to add a soundtrack to my memories. So many feign misunderstanding to cloak virulent apathy. If I am broken, then let the most alluring pieces of me be my legacy. In backtracking to find the precise period of my tragedy, I have essentially become my own mystery. I am flawed, perhaps purgatory will cleanse me of my impurities. Future events are revealed to the Empath, but not yet fully. They say music calms the troubled soul. Somewhere, a cellist plays beautifully. The harpsichord and violin come in while I await the crescendo of a new symphony.