If you can't see the magic in putting simple words together that evokes a passion, equal to the power of a thousand horses,

then WHO ARE YOU?

Do you know what it is like to see and believe in love yet not feel it inside of you?

It is like living inside of a glass coffin, knowing air is our there, seeing the trees dance with every swish of breeze.

Yet inside you are slowly dying. Dying and rotting.

I am rotting.

Because my thoughts, ever day, are turning unconventional.

My beliefs are cementing.
I don’t call every walking human being an ape for being himself.
I call myself an ape. Why, you ask?
If I like my tea sweet then he must be free to take his tea the way he wishes.
I simply can’t ****** sweetness down his throat.
My beliefs are cementing.
I would rather choose to sit alone in my apartment during my 40s, resenting love for being all around me, yet not in me.

Don't **** them

God had an idea
What if that one ***** didn't fight through
You would't be living, breathing, suffering or experiencing beauty

One single idea is all it takes to create

Create, don't ****

Love cannot be confined. Love cannot be bred.

I loved a boy. Even though I knew we had no future.
We met very rarely but when we did, our love for each other raged like forest fire.
I loved him for his good heart and I loved him for the way he had his life under control.

There was a part of me that knew he wasn't completely himself to me.
Because what was I but another person he knew?

That didn't stop me from loving him. I loved him with all my heart hundreds of kilometers away from him.

Because this love was mine. I had the perfect love and I didn't want him to love me back.

With this boy, I love being in love, alone.

I watched a worker strenuously wipe the water-stained glass door, this Monday.

I walked past a building wet with rain; the patterns were a graceful grey.

I watched an old lady, seated in the passenger seat of her car, draw smileys on her window.

I walked, trying not to step on a million little watery crevices on the sidewalk.

With water stains, everything has come alive.

The dusty windowpanes, the water-pecked window and the silent fridge - humming in the background.

What do houses do when nobody's home?

The silence must be awkward.
With the windows shut and the doors closed, do the houses mourn the silence or take it in peace?

What I wouldn't give to be a houseplant, just to get a taste of the silence.

Oh I really do wonder!

What do houses do when nobody's home?