Once

All at once I felt a rush of childhood running through my veins; pulsating in my head - as if in harmony with the ocean’s call. It brought me back to years ago when grass appeared a little greener and clouds a little whiter; a time when honey tasted a little sweeter and home was a little more welcome. Until then, I had forgotten the innocence of morning dew and the blooming of buttercups more yellow than I had ever seen. Hot cocoa was only as hot as to warm me to my bone and lullabies lulled me to the promise of sleep - the promise that my dreams were safe if only for one more night, and that darkness only existed between the crevices of my imagination. The world cradled so perfectly in my curled fingers. And as suddenly as it had appeared, it disappeared; only leaving in me a lingering ache - it had all once been so beautiful.

Expect

By all means, I do not expect you to understand the inner storm settling beneath my worn, dug hole of a chest. I expect you not to comprehend the tumultuous labyrinth of dull and ache between the cavities of my spine, I expect you not to hear the roaring of a thousand winds echoing through my vacant, thoughtless head. I do not expect you to see the wilting of lilies in the forest of my mind, nor do I expect you to talk with the beasts setting ablaze my dreams of dreams. I have come to expect little.

Bliss

I believe that somewhere along the mountainous thickets of shrub and wild lilies, somewhere among the slowing creek and wilting tulips—somewhere and somehow I lost myself, and I had not intended so. I’ve lived a life of caution and simplicity and had it been that way for the rest of my days, I might have found happiness. Ignorant bliss—as it were, but bliss is bliss. Bliss is bliss is bliss.

Nothing

More often than not do I have the urge to crawl under a sheet of blackness and dissolve into a great big pool of nothing. My tears will ebb with the waters beneath my feet and they will sink into its great murky depths and only then will I find solitude. Strangers will walk briskly through my puddle of sadness on their way to work, children will jump right in it in their new rubber boots, a man will lay his coat down for his lover to walk across—and all the while, my sorrow will be forgotten as leaves wither and children hide, as moths swarm and honey melts, as seasons sleep and the corners of pages fold. At last, I will dissolve into nothing.

Reader

I dare say I do not believe in much, but loudly I declare that I can distinguish a non-reader from an avid reader. These types of people both walk and talk on the same grounds, through the same air; they swim and dive in the same oceans, in the same seas. But alas, the frail line that divides the two is simple. An avid reader will have the stars in his eyes, chimes in his voice, feathers in his walk. An avid reader will command a room as his own puppet show; he will tread with purpose and speak with clarity; but most of all, an avid reader will have an air—an aura (shall we say?)—to him. His skin is freckled with tiny specks of dust that glow with the moon on late nights and shine the colors of infinite auroras. These particles collect as if by magic, and some even believe that they can only be created by the closing of a book by a satisfied reader.

(Source: loste)