Till ashes turns to dust, I will remain in a fog. And until that fog is smuthered by Sun, I'll be blinder than the ignorant stars. Huddled together in their gossip and glory, unwilling and uncapable to give their kindness and absoultion. Bliss is not within reach; even as such, I find casualities in my every day to be satisfing. Or at least not borning; because many people have made each day different. Maybe that's why the burning papers wouldn't completely turn to dust but only smoldering ashes- the diference in people keeps on letting the ashes stay as such. Something thats only meaning is to at last, end. Again, this is not terribly bothersome. Just a feeling of unavoidable drama and hurt. But this warm foggy feeling won't allow me act to seek out the reason for the future pain, or try to stop it. Perhaps a person ugly, or a problem with my true relationship? Most likly myself. And it will end with alot of crying, I am almost sure of it.
But the pure invigaration of possible randomness- such as through romance, travel, money and advenchure! Has driven my heart to run on what seems as a reality only as thick as a board of wood. As such a daring act is condessed and hidden within the confinds of my mind as a load spring, it is impossible to see from the way I act. Like a fasaud, I allude! So dramatic, but good- I suppose.
Question: This is a statement. But I need to keep taking my meds.
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