Within each of us is all the places we have ever been to, except they are still, and empty, and always too cold, and for now, you pretend to believe them only when you feel exactly like they do.
You wake up again with the rain coloring your windows and you do everything you possibly can to be still and simply hear it.
I listen for you the exact same way.

Even in our slumber when we are too tired to see, the world is ever changing, showing us more and more as we look. In the sidewalk, and the dinners you had at a young age that were filled with people and beautiful china set before your hands (but always without sound) you found all of the ways to be lost and have been looking for a way back home in every person you meet.

Even the rain, the way the world forgives us, the way the world exists in its most innocent form, is only present long enough to remind us that all this place will ask of us is to seek the substance of its composition.
And it sits there falling on your window, as if there is always a place for things.

The world began slowly, step by step, like honey dripping off its comb.
The world began like it knew how it would end.
And on Sundays when your feet brush against the wood floor on your porch, and you sit there peeling oranges with the wind inbetween your fingers,
you find it.

I feel as if there is a seed that was planted in all of us to search for definition, whether it be of self or of anything else, but search for definition none the less.
As if the things that provide the worth are even there, and not ever more present in the distance of two individual selfs.
As the past would show us, even in its weakest state, it is still distance that determines who is what.
It's so easy to forget that it's believed we spend our time searching for things, when really we're just trying to find where they begin.
Even though beginnings in themselves are easy to find since there so many of them, almost none of them are the same.
This also is why they are frightening; because there has never been anything in humanity's existence that is more terrifying than uncertainty, and finding a lack of, in places that were once full.

Everything turns into:
"There was so much here, and now there is nothing."

Eventually, you start to only think about the specifics in life that were absent from you, and you even try to remeber things you know were never there.
This happens to everyone at some point, and most never understand it when it does.
And at best, you learn to not see people as a place to go.

Despite what you have been told, God is more absence than feel, but who am I to tell you they are not the same things.
It's kind of like, no matter where you are, or who you turn in to, you are always the place that you come from.
And it took you awhile, but now you are here.
You are in the place that took you away by taking you anywhere at all, and this is why: everything that has ever been made was supposed to save you.
And if you believe this for even a moment, then it becomes truth.
That's all we have, all the things singing in their own ways.
Their voices following you wherever you go in hopes you will add to them.


A lot of people will tell you "life begins at conception" or "life begins after....." as if life is something that stirs in a sleep after a certain amount of time.
But you know that this can never be true.
Not the life that you understand easiest, because there is much to be said about it, but at its core, at the place where you lose the ability to break it down any further, we see that life reflects the fragments of the thing that consumed it most.
And that which consumes life the most, that which you have been able to call yours since the beginning is divided between two things : death, and everything singing in it's own ways.