To pretend that I am not consumed with you. To act as though the day drags on and does not stop, pinned to the scent of your bath left flowers in the air or the sound of your disappointments is ignorance. Not bliss.
The fishing line snapped. Sun blazed. Sweat ran down his back. The old man cursed. Nature gave him the middle finger again, but he didn’t care. Silence reigned. It was between him and the sea.
In the midst of the absurdity that is existence, the act of turning a blind eye can be a form of rebellion. To deny the taunting gaze of an indifferent universe, and find solace in the ephemeral, is to embrace the very essence of the human spirit.
He looked away. Couldn’t face the bull that gored him, not just in the ring, but in his mind. The drink was strong, and he didn’t care. That’s how it was, and that’s how it ended.
In the fluttering painting of the human soul, there are whispers – soft as petals falling onto a pool. With trepidation, the heart, like a child, peeks behind the curtains. The whispers are the self; do not let them be drowned.
we waltz through life in a daze, steadfastly oblivious to the cosmic carousel. as if that’ll keep the asteroids at bay. dance on, but space rocks don’t care for the ostrich routine.
To pretend that I am not consumed with you. To act as though the day drags on and does not stop, pinned to the scent of your bath left flowers in the air or the sound of your disappointments is ignorance. Not bliss.
The fishing line snapped. Sun blazed. Sweat ran down his back. The old man cursed. Nature gave him the middle finger again, but he didn’t care. Silence reigned. It was between him and the sea.
people, your husband, any troubles, your hungry, your angry
In the midst of the absurdity that is existence, the act of turning a blind eye can be a form of rebellion. To deny the taunting gaze of an indifferent universe, and find solace in the ephemeral, is to embrace the very essence of the human spirit.
He looked away. Couldn’t face the bull that gored him, not just in the ring, but in his mind. The drink was strong, and he didn’t care. That’s how it was, and that’s how it ended.
In the fluttering painting of the human soul, there are whispers – soft as petals falling onto a pool. With trepidation, the heart, like a child, peeks behind the curtains. The whispers are the self; do not let them be drowned.
we waltz through life in a daze, steadfastly oblivious to the cosmic carousel. as if that’ll keep the asteroids at bay. dance on, but space rocks don’t care for the ostrich routine.