Tapering thoughts for a tapering soul. It can melt you from a haughty plight to the sand. To the stones I cry! And.. Billowing echoes they feign, alarmed.  I see them fish from the sky to us earthly dwellers; fixating on a screen we beseech. They must sit there it their lofty halves. I implore you, oh dishevelled one. Your mask is a lovely one. Yes, to that I will agree I am.  But what we must make of it in an undulating bough. Rolling and rolling down upon itself. To a brink that it may see again.

He doesn't know, but his will is strong enough to see. Unlike all the others. He has found himself, but not even he or I knows of what. He follows the hills and reaps all the tranquillity of the night. He is an ambiance. A force, and I will never know him. He is the wind and the still. He is the shadows and the light, the darkness and the colour of the day. Half happenstance did we meet. And half willingly do we greet.

That I may be concerned with the world around me, I fade into a mist. But I know nothing of it, for it plays with the ways of my soul. My sorrows etch the wind, and cut into the pieces that I am. I can finally see, as I bring myself down. I see everything I am, for what I am not. I see everything I could do, but will never. And a whirlwind finds me in the depths of my enlightenment. It throws me to the rocks and fights.
Must I be conventional, must I claw after society's ideal?

To be loved, Oh but to love.

Must they be separated souls?
No, a cauldron as they synthesise to a boil.

Such is this.
A reckoning to be bled
Heights confined
Consistently following

A peace to see
The sky to breathe
Fighting the wake of time
Over a listless siege

They may cry
Little over and over
They beckon
Simply shaking amidst me

Distance bearing
Are you to see?
Not that I wont ever
This that I need...

Shadow me grief
Mountains to thee
Not, to only escape
Tortuous thrust to cleave.

Hating... hating...
A line I cannot see.
To but find you
Perchance assuming.

Those whom frown upon internal communication simply are not entertained by it themselves. Now. You, over there. The one that left me indirectly but direct enough to scar. Yes. If you have any place in reality you have no place with me. Any connection, feel to, or breath in this actual world, and you are but a dust. Not even a piece, just a dust. But, how dare you think to compare yourself to anything of importance. Question  yourself, as long as wished. Upon me you mustn't. For the wind can sometimes blow even the nonexistent being. Beware; sometimes, I make love to my own soul. And it's beautiful. I can watch my mind lop around inside of my being. And with it my voice rescinds any notion it has for itself! Only to a fault, and versing in the oscillations of my mind. Close your mind and write you fool. You can't, see, only he can. Only he will, ever will. To forever he will. Stretching a camp to and from the frolics I seep skin deep. An eternity, and I will stand by what I mull over in my consciousness. A faint notion, perhaps, but a grave feel to this life I must have, and I will have. Goodness to the world, and it cries back. Heated! Like an autumn refugee, bitter, as the lifeless leaf, itself fettering. Gaunt are you, with a liege of blubber; acquisition feting! Whom, now to have the best of these, only a peculiar type such as thee. I needed you, such as you needed your impending fate. Neither of which will ever come, but are to die swiftly with the passing of a second. Literally. Okay. Maybe a minute. I'll give you that. I shouldn't have wasted more than a second however. But for what you cause me I take so much more.

Oh how, say it, me again, and here. For the ever and away I spell you a finding. To ever, and you, but a stop to this. Never! I love you. Maybe. I can never make what my mind is of. Why try? I pull myself apart, on purpose. Perhaps an ending to this confusion. Perhaps a discovery in the midst of this. Happenstance! What is the end if never the hunt? I beg of thee, as I beg of me. Escape yourself, come into the relics of time and the osculations of such. With me. Of me. And now I must leave. Moonlit soul. I will treasure you as I treasure my own. Mysterious are we, but it to be the fun of existence. Like the ash thrown to the waves, and spread to a nonexistence. You stay, even if invisible. You will always float among the waters of my fragmented subsistence.  

We spend our whole lives trying to feel something. We also spend out whole lives avoiding feeling something. Whether we like it or not the meaning of our lives is abstract. This is something evolution cannot explain. Evolution doesn't know what art is. How can it? The purpose of evolution is to better the species. On the contrary, if one goes about his life in a successful mannerism and dies with billions to his name, he has lived a cold and bitter life. So many want this because they can see it. So many want this because they crave respect unhealthily, abnormally, and obsessively. Not many want what they cannot see. Not many want what they think not to be real. But this is what we need. It is what our nature is trying to tell us we need.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of rain on a summers day, or the smell of fallen leaves in the autumn. The sounds, the feels, the tastes, the expectations and doubts, everything that we know and love, everything that we hate and despise. All of it, working towards a burning inside. A knowing, a willing, a happenstance to peace. Everything of it, and more.