How can it be that you can have everything and still want more? Am I greedy when I ask "is there anything else?"
How can it be that the ties of friendship can be undone? Are they not elastic? Aren't they impervious to the ever-shifting sands of time that weather meeker men down to disassociated piles of dust?
How can it be that you can plant roots that spread and intertwine themselves, seemingly immune to any upward motion, just to pluck them from the ground that nurtured them for years and place them somewhere unlike anything they've ever known?
How can it be that the world can hold so many secrets and yet our instincts tell us to discover the truth? No secret was ever discovered by trusting a single source; like the threads of a dream-catcher, we entangle ourselves in multiple realms to capture what we seek.
I don't know which face means more: the smiling ones that coax me into song, and folly, and memories as precious as time, or the one blemished with melancholy as it stares back at me knowing there's so much more.
How can it be that we have an imagination as wide as the universe, and yet we never dare to find the borders?