A second-degree-removed 💗 flub. Some seminal thoughts, here: on dying.

As I had been a guy for the sociable scene this recent holiday week (July 4th, 20¹9);

I felt a confidence about the air, of that love, of that cleanliness, and good old-fashioned romance might win many over, including myself, as I saw many couples. 

Then, (twice, I believe « on a släde couch jaunt », I interred a heart flutter. I say twice-(removed) because it was <_ about="" along="" and="" as="" athleticism="" be="" better="" brought="" confidence="" deluded="" dying="" folklore="" forth="" get="" h4="" had="" how="" i="" immortal="" in="" it="" life="" many="" me.="" mortality="" my="" nbsp="" not="" obvious="" of="" on="" others="" our="" self.="" sense="" some="" that="" thoughts="" to="" we="" well="" with="" yet="" youthful="">

That being said, I'm fairly well-to-the-self as far as routine (getting back to it), and it was a good several to many hours spent in caring self-healing therapy; mainly of pressure-point massage. 

Some repressed memories came to mind, during several of many traumatic-crisis incidents that bubbled forth, upon my ⁴th of July weekend. 

That I am 37 years old, I felt it fairly iconic celebutante of me, (nearly) incurring a heart-attack. It made me realize several things.

1. First of all, the attrition. Who wouldn't [given Scientology] be held at questioning and tribulation for justice? Is my objective reality different than others'? 
2. Second of all, I felt like I was suitably seated only somewhat to have faithfully only dalliançèd a heart attack « émbue », as it were. Just a flub. My rote and good deeds unto faith towards the feeding of the pigeons had done me well, as for this go-round. 
3. But what about others? Would they have haunted so bwamm, just like myself, and fared so dauntless jaunt regardless fwamm . . . the sidewalk's upturned now-ish? 

Fairly bwammAF to note, it's fairly unexpected conversational topic to bring up recent circulatory issues outside of the medical field, yet I'm a fairly astute abstracts-by-night reader, with a fairly well-to-do IQ to go with it. 

I thought about my interrent peers and their such-to-suppose (also [nearly]) heart-attacks. Regardless of (whatever), I feel like perhaps it (I); ergo: ought be wrought out in the public. 

First of all, it's a looming spectre for all of us, some day. I've determined that it takes death over fighting and waste to produce crystal methamphetamine. Nobody (supposed)...<_ div="" nbsp="">

Well, okay. People do give effort and produce will and means for the [<_ div="" go="" good="" identities="" much="" nbsp="" of="" others.="" psychology.="" standard="" the="" through="" we="">

But okay. Fwiff. But what's the point? We all fwiff, some alike, some different. 

The heart murmur, and subsequent blood circulatory debacles, which I had worked out in my self-physical pressure-point therapy, over many hours, became a self-evident article of forensics, given repressed-memories, time-elapsed had withheld from myself; I felt that it was so; as well, unto others who cho[o]se to a abuse me. 

Perhaps we were all harboring hidden resonances of childhood traumas that none of us were grown up well enough, by far - to the expectations of that God would not burden Man with more that He Himself could ought handle. 

The Bible rings true, and in society, we have the seminal works of others as upon our Daily Bread offerings of choices we might make, rarely noticing or remembering the unique traumas within each one of us who had been unduly abused, yet a formative self of abusive concomitance that had become our spectre alter self; our Sympathetic Resonance of pain, that formed our early lives; the framework that we had grown up within and amongst. 

Perhaps leading us to nearly die early, at some point in our lives.