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Feb 2015
The best thing about the English language is how you can say the most without even using it. And how the two things that make us most human, love, and the life that sits inside of us, can sometimes be switched and mean the same thing.
"I live here."
"I love here."
As in, this place, that came about more slowly than anyone could understand, holds any hope or goodness that was ever apart of me.
This place, the only moment in time where you can correctly lose parts of you that were never made to give away, keeps you there the rest of your life wether you know it or not, regardless if you ever choose to return to it.

But of course you will.
You go back almost every day, and listen for sounds no one could ever hear, you take in every beam of light which had no intention of sliding it'self into such a dark pool of hair that floats so gently above the spine, and yet how could it be anywhere else?
And how could you ever not notice such things?
The world itself is it's own piece of life, and every time we forgot to see it we come closer to being incomplete, we come closer to dying with so much left inside of us.
And if you must die, do so with no dreams left to speak of, with no life leftover to silently wither away in an eternal quiet, and with every word softly landed in every place it was meant to be.
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