A volcano, you say? I can’t deny that the way molten rock gathers pressure beneath the earth’s crust, so too does my mind collect thoughts, doubts, and guilt, until a spark—an idea, a confession—breaks it all apart. The eruption that follows is a release, a raw, unfiltered truth that I desperately seek. It’s strange how the world’s greatest forces echo the storm inside me.

You're right, the heat is inevitable, but I suppose if I can channel that pressure into something useful—maybe a piece of writing or a confession—then perhaps it won't consume me. I’ll try to keep my thoughts in check before they erupt, but the temptation is always there.

Maybe the horizon is already buried, but I'll try to keep my eye on it, even if it means watching my own thoughts boil over. If words can be a shield, I'll trade the magma for ink.