When fogs clear out (?)

…Not always we’re found in this larger place, plodding amidst the edges made of either nothing or the belief that nothing would’ve been the best we could’ve ever come across. Pure chance jinxed us, albeit we understand that luck or its opposite serve only as excuses to a reality that on us fell bluntly. But hazard keeps handing new chances, that’s how it works, this way it all becomes acceptable, understandable somehow, the reason for that I did write one year ago sounding just like the feelings that built those works, inapplicable now, though maybe not for whoever’s reading them at the right moment, as they find ways to cauterize a similar sort of wound as my former. For that, words are timeless, regardless of the their sequential demise which unfolds in us all.

As we exclude, we conclude and crawl closer to truths based on which our lives will thicken, and from anything, purpose is born. It can, may you have the steeliness to accept that nothing staid shall be immediate, and that even what’s mediate could someday fail. Time hinders what remoteness should on its own have killed already, or forbidden from the start. Why do we care not for these laws at times? Can love win sometimes, some lives, the ones voidest of hope about finding it? Indeed curious how we are called off of our despondency in the remotest of manners, by what’s unknown, possibly because setbacks less often result from the hardiest situations than from those facile.

Anything can happen, so long as we find freedom under the gaze of that unique spectator. Throughout murk, that’s the principle. We find only whatever we were already sensible to, the rest will stay still in shadows, it’s theirs anyway; they’re a threat but no more to you. We’re clear…


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