if we could see into the minds of others then maybe we'd finally know without that, it's tempting to think we're alone or that things don't matter and aren't something to talk about moments in life are beautiful because they are fleeting photographs are but an extension of their beauty they do not take away or give do you really think the beauty you inherited will end with you?
Once I was, once I wasn't. I remember, I remember when I was afraid to speak. This very place I speak now, not because anything has changed but because I want to speak. You've been such a big part of who I am yet also such a small one.
My words are clunky, my words are lunky, my words have no meaning yet I write them. I write them for the people I've met, those who melted in me; those who changed me, those who helped me find my place. The usual insecurity, does anyone else search the definitions of words? I'm I strange, should I have felt such all my life? I wish I could thank again the people I've met, I wish I could visit the past, never for it to last, it never lasts. Though not much is here to be said, I feel special, sentimental, all cliche but true. I also have moments where I hate them. As we are human. Is it okay to be vulnerable? Is it not venerable. At last my words are messy, meaningless in the world, floating in place, in binary, on this page; Is it worth it to express, to want to keep that expression, to keep and hoard every minute detail of our lives.
little bee, little bee, how it is to ease, to see, to tease what you may believe flower, flower, see its wings, what does it mean, to what has it seen
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In midnight's cloak, where shadows kiss, The stars ignite a sparkling bliss. Moonbeams waltz with silken grace, Night's allure, a dream's embrace. Through midnight's hush, soft whispers sing, Bliss unfurls on velvet wing. Time suspends in lunar glow, Serenity in darkness flows.
To who does the credit go for the creation of the universe? Could a world such as ours even be designed? Many times i have studied the patterns of rocks and grass and wondered if such a being could exist; one capable of such accuracy in its creation. But, such a being must also design the failures of my life, the mistakes, the awkward conversations. To what debt do I, nor everyone, owe this being for it to be so cruel? May such a debt ever be repaid? What purpose does repaying an endless debt serve other than to continue that passage of time?
Endless. Such is the life of a grain of sand; forever ephemeral in the sea of the world. What hope does it give to never see the sun rise, yet feel its presence all the same. What can we expect of our lives, if not for the waves of emotion that we ride along? What meaning can there ever be other than meaningless in such a world?
It never bends and only breaks. Trust is brittle. Do what it takes.