With rain followed by immediate bright sunlight we dose ourselves in doubt, feeling the cold rush of wind through the taught veins in our bodies. We push our skin closer together, wanting to feel each other pulse and breath but nothing more. If we felt more, if we had more what would we be at? Our confusion would spread and therefore create an unknowing situation, one that would be left alone and unsolved for far too long taunting at the back of our heads. That is why we do not go far.
Walking in the path of nature we begin to handmake the paper that make up the books of our lives, bound by uncertainty and random glorifying happiness. Here we stand, and here we sit. Sparkles fall down upon us as the pen begins to write, swiftly swaying back and forth, left and right between the pages that are quickly crumbling. We think we have enough time, to lay here and do what we will and not have to move. It is a lie, but we ignore it and waste our precious years in true bliss and ignorance. – the pages are now burning -.
Stare into the fire, try to find the symbolism behind it. Is there any? You sit there, striving to figure out what it truly means. And yet, it truly means nothing at all. There is not always symbolism in everything, there is not always hope in times of fear, there is not always love deep beneath the hate. Sometimes, there is just nothing at all.
