I am surrounded by strings.
Strings I can see
And strings that I can't see
Strings that require effort
To reach
And strings that require
No effort at all.

As I lay,
In this woven world,
I hope to chance upon
The string I desire.
But is such a thing possible?
Or do I have to make my own?
How much strength do I need to achieve it?
...
What sort of strength do I need?

As I lay wasted,
Staring at the interlocked strings above,
I struggle to comprehend
What effort is needed
To reach the string I yearn
For so many strands
Interlock to form
One string
And one strand
Changes the string completely.

I revisit a scene once passed
A scene that went by too fast
I unconsciously reach out
And then
Fall into a ditch of murky black.

The first fall, a fall vestigial
The second fall, a fall wistful
Wistful, for I understand
That fall was untasteful
A fall that was not down
But sidewards
Not into a shadow but
A curtain painted black
A curtain that could always
Be drawn back
That is
If you wanted to push past
The strength that you lack.

A fall is a fall
But not always a fall;
In this universe
Direction is relative,
Symptoms and disease
Are not equivalent,
However
It is up to you
To draw back the curtain.

What are the twists
And turns of a string?
How many threads are
Hidden within?
What parts do we see
And what parts do we not?
Is this string the same one
Or have we picked up
Another?

How can we depend on
Our eyes and mind that
Alter images to the very
Moment they are seen...

A person has only one soul in their lifetime.
The soul does not change;
It does not fade,
It does not shine.
However, its world does.

The environment the soul lives in
Is it's body's heart and mind.
Fed by the heart.
Tainted by the mind.
Surrounded by the mind's light.
Surrounded by the heart's warmth.
Naught else can it sense.

Without one, the others flail.
Without the heart, they wander tiredly.
Without the mind, they flutter aimlessly.
Without the soul, they cease to exist.
No base.
No character.

People don't change,
As their soul remains constant.

We are creatures
That live in this moment,
The clearest image,
Is in front of our eyes.
Not before
And surely not ahead of us
But now.

We are creatures
That live for this moment,
Our lives unliveable if
Our goal is out of hand,
Out of reach,
Out of our sight,
It's warmth, lost in the distance.

We are creatures
That live to this moment.
No life is in the future except now.
No life is in the past except now.
No life is in any point of the timescale,
Except now.

What we wish for,
What we reach for,
We should reach for in the moment
Now.

I'm afraid.
That the feelings I hold
Will fall from my grasp.
I'm afraid.
Of saying those words
That if spoken,
Would vanish into thin air,
I'm afraid...
That the feelings I express,
Are feelings based on lies
That have been painted by myself...

These fears I have
I know are wistful,
Desiring and yet
Holding feelings fickle,
Wanting truth... and yet,
Comforting myself with lies tristful.

There are feelings I am afraid to voice.
If voiced, just like before,
They would lose their meaning.
That if spoken, they would just become
The past.

These feelings that I hold,
Are they lies?
Or has everything become a regret?
That if spoken,
If fulfilled,
Parting with it comes with ease

I found a carving made of wood
A carving I made and
Never really understood
The shape was awfully made
And yet at the time
Emitted an aura that felt good
The raw quality,
The way light fell on it,
At the time I could only think
The carving was perfect,
The way that it stood.

I found a wood carving that I hid
Away from my mind
So that I could bid
Farewell to the misplaced notches and indents
That surfaced on the carving.
Why did I leave pieces here
And cut off parts there?
What experience did I have in carving
Such an obscene piece?
Of myself, the carving, I would rid
But if only I could
Forget what I did
What I carved
What I was amid
But I cannot

The reason I didn't understand
The decisions I made
Was because
I understood the decisions I made.