The last bit with the phasmid resonates with me so hard, I think, because of my sensory and social issues. There is so much goddamn information out there, all of it contradictory and painful and harsh and insidious, and I struggle to process it all, as I am compelled to process it all. “A kaleidoscope of fire and writhing glass” sums it up pretty good. There is incredible beauty in the world, but guarded behind a gate of horrible pain. But not crossing the gate is a hell all its own. A lower hell, one devoid of meaning or purpose. To wallow, stagnate, and atrophy is a worse fate than facing the agonizing beauty of the world on its own terms. Every rose is behind a mile-long hedge of clawing thorns. But I have to remind myself the thorns are not all there is.