The style and airs of one soul; by deep dark dread, by caricature, by design.
The pressure animates life, by sheer focus.
It amazes when they visit: Who am I?
Winds speak winter is close. A flower reminds of a scent, in turn, a Love.
A soul took on a mutable project. Another is writing film. Yet another is delving deeper into motherhood.
If to do self a favor, I’d slow down.
By captive roots, a life at chase, trying to efface those roots.
So much harder to catch.
We know its truth. We speak to it. A soul gets upset. Reality doesn’t mean it’s up for discussion. I laugh in private, not so much though.
In hearing who I am, I seldom see correlation. Instead, we see mirrors. To activate a thought, we first look at self, this is a backboard. The worse of our thoughts are reflexive.
In running to a fantasy, to envision a lie, with hope ever by its fringe.
In desire—it might invert itself.
Souls are placed on pedestals. This is legit. But why?
If to find a better part of life, self, a higher activity, then it aches.
Mindsets seem to change with intention there.
In adoring some creature, as perfect, what happens?
We enter debating over deal breakers.
Something must go deeper.
