Pages and pages of the shit that I hate to read but do it anyways.
Then you give me something resembling crack for a cokehead.
It’s beautiful, fits right in the cracks of what broken edges of the mirror I’ve been attempting to use as a successful gauge of reality.
Funny how I forgot what the message I was reading was already broken, missing pieces, functioning into a bleak oblivion, because it wasn’t like I was using a mirror to begin with, but a tinted window.
With a series of self construed curves that weren’t in the accounting of the process of interpretation.
So we stand there lost, thinking that there wasn’t a hope or a care in the world.
How foolish we were.
Brighten the day, find the way, do just as we say, don’t follow what we do, we were told.
Blindly a few followed and found a way to survive, but then there were people like me, who didn’t get it.
Didn’t follow as they saw others do, but asked all the questions they were told to forget, to regret, and then they had to choose which side they wanted to take and go with their dreams.
Seize the day or take it a step at a time.
Find your hope alone.
You have to be comfortable with yourself because nobody else is going to make you (which I still think is a lie, but that just may be me, myself, and I) complete.
Dreams as you go to sleep, dreams as you trudge through the day, dreams of something bigger than yourself, of the people around you.
Of the hope you carry, or drag, with you to keep you going in what seems like the mundane.
It’s not always a wish for tomorrow, though sometimes it seems that way.
Choose the path you really want to take, the message says, but there is a way to go.
The end is the changing factor, something that you have decide where your journey is bound to go.
So I decide that I’ll leave it to Fate, leave it to Chance, and take the Moment that I’ve been avoiding, but who knows.
I’m going to Somewhere, which has to be better than Nowhere, because much as I don’t always know the direction, press forward is all I can think.
Chances are this will become something, which is again better than nothing but who am I to judge—beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and well what I feel it shit out the window; is art.