How can I be alone when I am always there with myself? Is this illusion stronger, better, more true than the other one we call life?
In fiction, the tides merge with the sea, the sunshine flows warmly through the perforated leaves, the collocations rise with sense and settles smoothly, a fulfilling aftertaste savoured by one and all.
This is my hope, light and everything. This is what I am following, leisurely. Those who call it a crime are shunned automatically.
Myriad ideas know me well and I know them too, at least some of them. We haven’t set a selling price or cost price, we are friends and I am not clever. Ideas follow a different train of thought, though unaware about the details, I understand the emotional part of it.
The high plateau doesn’t rise again. There I walk alone and often stop near a tree to rest. One eye shine with stars in it and the other quietly shed tears. For a moment I knowingly choose any of the two sides, but generally I prefer walking on the border line.
I saw a shooting star and like the last time I wished for the same thing… I don’t remember it now, though I am thankful. Whenever I am thankful, I feel confident and happy. Often the glow makes me glow.
What I remember now is that I have been here before… it was as different as same it looks now.