A distant gaze into the unknown; A thousand bursts of everything and nothing at once. The clicking noise of gathering your thoughts; Yearning for things that you knew would always fade, eventually. The balance between acknowledging the faded glint of hope, and accepting you're not as strong as you thought you were, or maybe... Maybe this was always supposed to happen, in this way, this sequence. Maybe there is a blueprint or sketch, a layout of how things are meant to unravel. Maybe that would help make sense of it all, but alas... To take comfort in uncertainty. To accept your humanity. Hard surface dented and scratched with countless stories and faceless memories. What's the point of prideful scars when you can't accept your shoulders giving in to the insurmountable weight? A grin: Echos of joyful remembrance, of simpler times not so long ago. Refusal to become the incarnation of banality, isolated in a crowded matrix. The irony of assimilating your unexceptional uniquen
Your body speaks the words your mind dares not express and heart refuses to acknowledge, for there is no surefire way to cease the inevitable flow of energy derived from pure emotions. Those who look carefully can visually witness such energy by interacting with other individuals, the array of colors that vary with each mood and scenario. The pleasantness of such colors are marked not only by the exuder, but also by the interpreter; in other words, a form of aural daltonism. This put in layman’s terms, what you think others intend by their reactions alone is more often than not very dissimilar from your interpretation, and here’s where the plot thickens: in order to successfully carry out social and productive interaction this is a pre-requisite. There’s an upside to being overly analytical: self-awareness. However, the result of this obviously biased auto diagnosis often leads to the same conclusion, or as Einstein puts it: “…doing things over and over and expecting