Irony. In the losing to find parts of one’s mirror. To see tragedy lives, such radiant joys in others. To decide by hands-on, wisdom is pride, threshed like wheat. The beauty in tomorrow; the glee in hope. Trying to ignore being human, the travesty is happiness of the matter. The feeling is strangeness; the cadence is deceptive. In life one might find meaning, until it loses its fruitage. The soul is evolving outside of itself. One should treasure their joys, keep them close to heart.
Often, one entertains something with motives, unbeknownst to us. The seasons come to pass, holding to perception, faced by actuality: to have lived if passed into a condition. Just learning the debt, just inhaling the scents—most complicated of souls, looking for credence, exercising discernment, offered one dark, endless guarantee. Over a bonfire, strumming existence, battling an aged old dilemma. Such mortals; such vulnerability. (In seeing how souls adjust: book clubs,
poetry, religiosity, volunteer work, close friends, to make a world—filled with precepts, other pleasures—becoming vices.) How do we know? When one partakes against his will. A song is soulful—those days rushing faster, those weeks passing and losing memories. The sun rising—rain falling, to partake of realization—a promise always chasing. And some are filled with joys, nesting in temperament, shifting perspective. They amaze us.
