May it be so that we are but multitudes of hearts. Some are flaring like light houses, while others burn red hot and groan and flow like lava. How do we comfort the rise and flow of such forces, which give our lives their texture, their misery, their drive.
How much is too much and how to load the self-pities and domains with ease. Without second guessing, without glancing all around in search of the source of one particular evil. How does one lay his wary head to sleep, dreaming of death and birth and nothing else.
Connect or not to connect. That is the question. Be careful on your choosing of words, sentences, glances, your footing, the chair you are leaning against, are they yours, can you care.
Why should you care. If life is but pieces of shredded pages from a story book that was long lost and horribly remade and retold, with each generation, can truth last. Too many truth now, are we alive.
Love is a dangerous notion, understanding holds its own peril. How to love without being real, without being true, without being touched. What touches you can also kill you. What is love but fire already raged for too long, inside. What do you see.
Change is the devil and the saint. Grinding over the past life and be sure not what has been sown. Time can tell, time kills.
Is it wrong to have too many hearts. One heart for the sand in my eye, one for the air in my lung, one for the rain touching the ground, one for the life that is stretching long.
Love too many things, hanging the stars on every tree, finding a moon in every pond. Dance as if the spirit has never been broken, sing a song that only a bird can want.
Forgetting, forgetting, forgot.
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