"In distant parallel dimension,
17 years ago we met,
And just like that, without intention
Our life became a single thread.
But then you left to roam the forest
And i got drafted in the rain.
We said goodbye, but we had promised
That someday we will meet again.
And so time passed, i split the army
And i had wondered where you’re at.
You traveled almost every country
On the vast Old World continent.
I came to meet you in a valley
Of vast, eternal, endless grass.
And from then on we wrote our story
Creating magic as we pass.
It feels a bit surrealistic
To know that somewhere in the world
This path has actually existed
And our story has been told.
But in our actual dimension,
Where our story won't be known.
We have to fight our intuition
So our lives will not be blown.
I think a lot about this concept,
Of spinning doors or simple fait.
If things do happen for a reason
What is the purpose of this pain?
This is a complicated feeling,
Conflicted between truth and hope.
I wish i understood the meaning,
Of life, the universe and Love."
I’m catching myself on fire
I’m hurling myself into the unknown
Who will I be?
If one is to be a martyr,
Shouldn’t they have a reason?
I was to succeed
And to succeed I must become
The best that I can possibly be
I fear the unknown
It leaves me shaking each day
A quake that no affection can cure
Where I’ll go
But I will have to make the trip
Run into the arms of my fait
And trust that she will be kind to me
And will only want the best for me
Stone-like, steel eyes
biting down the
sweet, polished apple.
Silky smooth skin slithering
on the thoughts of the tempted.
Desire of the improper,
cause conflicts to the conflicted.
with 2000 different faits.
Life is not a cigarette box.
It is not replaceable upon reaching the bud of existence.
It does not come bearing a warning label that tells you that it can destroy you inside,
but rather expects you to find the words in the smoke.
And when you place your fait between your lips,
and ignite it,
life does not allow you to throw it to the ground,
or squish it into an ash tray.
Rather, your fait actually begins to breathe in your smoke instead.
Life is not a cigarette box,
rather a single cigarette.
Handed to you by the faint shadow of yourself,
and given to you by the distant memory of who you once were.
— The End —