From so far away,
you descend your ways
and that is for now
enough
in a lost sea, to find those
few moments to be.
Your eyes
speak of the glint
in your soul
once lit
would never be diminished.
The envelope of the desire to write envelopes me entirely, covering my existence and making it perfunctory. I wish to seek aid in writing, but my mind is distracted due to the layers of waste that exists inside the envelope.
I must write and I must live and live according to a set of rules that are unwritten. This bothers my soul and tears it apart. Does this enable me to write? Yes, as I am doing now, but not sufficient for the resurrection that I am looking for. To be born out of your own creation is to assign a purpose to your own creation. To commit hours of writing is what I need, but hours I do not have right now. I need them. I need them. I have to make them, to manufacture time out of time. As you read through this, it seems like a ranting of a broken and lost man. But a broken and lost man will come to be a man through the circumstances unseen to him. Unpredictability to achieve a goal lends a kind of beauty to life which cannot be seen without a set purpose.
So my goal is to write, but that isn't something I do enough. Hence my existence becomes beautiful in a disorderly manner. I exalt the nature of who I am right now because I haven't come to be. But I know for sure that I will be.
