Good
morning, Love. We address passion, this park of souls, chasing the abandons of
freedom; with such enthusiasm, the dregs of empiricism, for such freedoms are
torturous. We give for life, and frantic to guide, where a swan reasons for
herself; to proffer a challenge, for this beige world, and disenchanted by
paradox; so the place we dwell, becomes confusion, as to infuriate the swan;
where this is life, and somewhat oxymoronic, whereat, are frustrations; but
what of passion, this zeal for college, this want to succeed—to have for
treasures, the power to brood—in order to fish out a solution? We need
exposure, this net of experience, to dance as pragmatic minds; indeed, flooded
with metaphysics, to picture so grayly, where souls compartmentalize; as to value
truths, painted in passions, to settle when the mountain has been conquered; to
journey forward, into a forest of webs, as to pick the paths of freedom; but
this is life—a tinge of frustration, a vest of arts, and this zeal for musical
passions; to dance in an armchair, to live out an armoire, to write a novel;
where pieces form a puzzle, to notice a pattern, where like-minds have paved
the course. We reach the skies, saturated in meditation, to sit alone
vibrating; and what is this venture, but the call to Light, soaring and scaling
caves; to have a soul, permeated with life, this feeling that drives our
hearts; whereat, are dangers, to watch for maya,
for deception is the maze of knowledge; so gather wings, as filled with
feathers, to realize a crooked line—as to fly freely, a born skyscraper,
tugging at hidden stars; for this is living, to do it with intention, as
opposed to gripping life passively. It mustn’t be pain, to offset destiny, as
one waning in resilience; for it must be pain, to set in motion—a volume of
prose; and it must be pain, to open an old soul, to the realization of an inner
voice; to mold as overseer, and climb as the heartbeat, that rages against the
tides of tragedy.
