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Oct 2014
The past in it's own way is simply a loose spirit, one that chose to devote itself to the art of reflection, one that shackled itself to those who decided that the act of giving something up was the only logical way to leave the world.
To leave the world the way they came into it, filled with what they were given, which was everything, and completely prepared to lose all of it.
Sometimes, we live the most in the moments before we die, and sometimes, we find death to be the most lively action ever found in our substance.
How when we die, and when we are born, we are held the exact same way, as if there is no difference between the two, as if they could never be two drastically contrasting events.
As if life and death could ever need each other.
I think about those who lie on the concrete with blood that had never known a home other than the body it came from, and how even blood leaves it's place of refuge when given the chance.
How truly complex we are, made of skin and bone as well as parallels and opposites, yet all of them equal in our configuration.
How we find beauty which only came because of a horrible violence the same way we find it when it comes from a conception.
As if there is one without the other.
And to think, everything that God has ever done sprouted from a small moment in time where He simply felt loneliness, and chose to give it to someone else.
As loneliness is the one thing that man has never been able to escape, as it is impossible to escape yourself, and impossible to avoid.
The world was covered with it, and
it's beginnings were described as a great sound, as the first song to ever produce growth, but I believe it was a touch.
That God found so much love inside of him that when his hands first found something to give purpose to, we were given color.
This is the only way we are loved, with what surrounds us.
With the things we lack the understanding to ask for.
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