I met
Myself from another time
On the bus on my way back home
He whispered to me
Of all he'd seen and heard
And smelled and touched
And lost along the way, while
Laughing through his children's eyes and trying through his own.
His rickety finger tapped timidly
On the windows that block the
Precarious winds that seldom blow
Bringing the same strange relief of loss
That lasts only a moment.
With pain and with pride,
With guilt and forgiveness,
Sometime
Somewhere
I knew I'd reek
Of the same regrets,
Of the same misgivings.
Right now
Right here
I knew I'd rather not.
Let me feed the flame
Around which we gather
To share meat, mead and stories
Of embellished pasts
Let it grow
Unvanquished; As
It sears through
To memory, to morning light.
I'm very existentialist in nature. I think we are the product of chaos. And I strongly believe we were born with no purpose. We make purpose. And we do so at the off-chance of having to make something significant, make a change, change a life for better or for worse, to inspire thought and progress. And that's about it. I see no reason to believe in the unquantifiable. I choose to find beauty in this roll-of-the-dice nature of the universe. I believe in creating cause and reaping effect from the complexities of human life and working with constant motive toward this ideated "destiny" we seem to pursue, without which we are docile inanimate beings of nothing. The realisation of the limitedness of time is the beginning of everything we have and will ever achieve. In my humble opinion it is an inexcusable waste of this valuable resource waiting around for results from predestined notions of your conventionalised dreams. Success in this life of any sort is deeply dependant on the faith you put into the belief that cause will bring effect and only in practising the same will all you've worked for confluence with opportunity. Don't be delusioned by the idea that you're alive for a reason, you make reason for your time on this earth to be all you can be. Drop your search for the meaning of life because the true meaning of life is what you make of it. Accept that life is a series of randomised events that you can take a part in to influence. Only then can you find the time to accomplish what you want from it.
You're made of glass
I'll hold you close,
Cushion your fragile
Your tender pose
You're made of glass
You're set in stone,
You lie chest-down
Your face unshown
You're made of glass
With crystal eyes,
Heart on sleeve
You spell demise
You're made of glass
You're still a child
Rehearsed behaviour,
A practiced smile
