Sometimes is can be disorientating to be so permanently inside a reality,
subjective or not, it tests our resolution to the twisted shapes of oval and peripheral vision.
Even in bright lights, when resemblance could not be clearer,
the only word i can pull out of my ass is onomatopoeia,
The worst hopes for the future are merely a fear.
If the Earth is too big, how big is the universe?
Do we have time to reverse?
To forget the conversations conversed,
perverse to the facts,
preferred to the whys,
or at any point prize,
the unique pigment of the iris of my eyes?
Since we haven't found the point, what is the use of our time, to make up our own purpose or commit to the shrines?
C'est la petite mort pour l'aime de la vie.
If we don't love life, how far have we lost out,
is it not by only the constellations of neurons to conceive an emotional clout?
At least it won't matter when we're rotting in the ground,
but that can matter then, what about now?
So, what to do with emotions and perceptions, there doesn't seem much point to disregard a just conceptions.
If the only place is where we can go ourselves,
then make sure to tag along and understand yourself,
and if you et lucky you'll find someone else,
to walk that same path,
even if it leads through Hell.
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