Let it come aboard to fall short of each and every aspect you believed in. Growth residing in the failures, that’s a harsh reality to seize. It’s simple though. I’m your friend and I’m your lover, was, will be. I’m all that you did not notice. Now, different, better and you, I fear you can’t see the same realities I do. That we only get what we open ourselves to receive, that you don’t breathe the same wind as me. It’d smother you, maybe, it’s thick, but who am I to be a judge of the dimension of your winds’ wrath?
I wondered, that’s all and then I stopped with the wondering, except for when I’d find myself wondering again. Only so, I counted the time gap between those wonderings and evaluated the degree of my moving sparseness. How can disconnection be a motive for inner peace? As emptiness becomes more passable than whatever else and you remain still as I distance myself farther away from my past, but will I consider you part of that past? I don’t like to do it but I can, I see that being a hypothesis by now. The lack of reasons to act on something makes us neglect it. “Neglecting” is the best way to call it as it’s the entry for all the rest to come.
In letting times be, we mature, for there’s no maturity without endurance. And love, does it coexist with maturity? Cause I came to see, in others at least cause I may be odd, maturity as a bringer of fear, distrust, doubtfulness. Maturity isn’t beautiful, is silent instead. Is made of listening more than speaking, of deceiving above believing.
You smoothed out some part of my tidal shape. I might now be learning to be flat, so flat I’m sure I’ll hardly ever splash you again.