I understand the magic that you do...

Only you can make all this world seem right,

only you can make the darkness bright.

Only you and you alone,

can thrill me like you do,

and fill my heart with love for only you.

Meant to be...

I didn't expect the last month to take such a toll on me, but considering that I was living on borrowed time, I am grateful for every day I get to continue without crumbling beneath the pressure. I accept it gratefully without looking beyond it. I completely forget my physical suffering and all the unpleasantness of my present condition and I think only of the joy of seeing the sun rise once more and of being able to work a little bit, even under difficult circumstances. Because whatever condition we are in, we must always do what we want to do, and if we want to go on a journey, then we must do so and not worry about our pain, even if it's the worst possible feeling, because, if it is, we're finished anyway, whether we go on the journey or not, and it's better to die having made the leap we've been longing for, than to be stifled by our yearning.

You taught me precious secrets...

Out of the woods...

I have now learned the hard way that there are no shortcuts in life. One must put in the work and have the patience to let things unfold. I have an unhealthy problem with waiting, though. I've always believed that I deserve more than I have, and it's been both a blessing and a curse. Such a mentality has propelled me forward, reaching beyond anything I could ever imagine, yet it has encumbered me as well, for there is no greater enemy of happiness, than pride.

Why in fact should one tell the truth? What obliges us to do it? And why do we consider telling the truth a virtue? Imagine that you meet a madman, who claims that he is a fish and that we are all fish. Are you going to argue with him? Are you going to undress in front of him and show him that you don't have fins? Are you going to say to his face what you think? If you told him the whole truth and nothing but the truth, only what you really thought, you would enter into a serious conversation with a madman and you yourself would become mad. And it is the same way with the world that surrounds us. If you obstinately told a man the truth to his face, it would mean you were taking him seriously. And to take something so unimportant seriously means to become less than serious oneself. You see, one must lie, if you don't want to take madmen seriously and become one of them yourself.

Teaching precious secrets...

Never be the same...

Death is nature's way of making things continually interesting. It is the possibility of change. Every individual gets its allotted lifespan, its chance to try something new on the world. But time is called and the molecules which make up leaf and limb, heart and eye are disassembled and redistributed to other tenants. And sooner or later, you begin to glimpse how elusive, how inherently insubstantial, how fleeting our thoughts are, our identities. There is magic in this moist world, in how the mind lets go, slips into sleepy water, circles and nuzzles the banks of palmetto and wild iris, how it seeps across dreams, smears them into the upright world, rots the wood of treasure chests, welcomes the body home.

My favorite place to bleed...

I make mistakes,

I know things break,

hear me love you,

let me love you -

I'll lay you down,

I feel you now.

So I'll sing hallelujah...

Stars, too, were time travelers. How many of those ancient points of light were the last echoes of suns now dead? How many had been born but their light not yet come this far? If all the suns but ours collapsed tonight, how many lifetimes would it take us to realize we were alone? He had always suspected that the sky was full of mysteries - but not until now had he realized how full of them the earth was. And it is much more interesting to live not knowing than to have answers which might be wrong. He has approximate answers and possible beliefs and different degrees of uncertainty about different things, but he is not absolutely sure of anything and there are many things he doesn't know anything about, such as whether it means anything to ask why we're here. He doesn't feel frightened not knowing things, by being lost in a mysterious universe without any purpose, which is the way it really is as far as he can tell.

Saw a shooting star, thought of you...

Now I see fire...

I admit, freely and without hesitation, that I am more scared than ever. I have made my wishes known, and as it turns out, the universe was actually listening. I wasn't prepared for everything to happen at once, though. I thought I'd at least get the chance to reflect, to breathe, to plan ahead. Yet life has a different agenda it seems - plummeting me towards me destiny, all the while ignoring my cries to slow down. But I dare not complain, for if anything, I am certain that I have never lived as intensely as I do in this very moment. Never before have I so courageously gazed into the future, so sure that despite everything, despite anything, I shall come out of it alive.

He is the sum total of everything that went before him, of all he has seen done, of everything done to him. He is everyone and everything whose being-in-the-world affected was influenced by his. He is anything that happens after he is gone which would not have happened if he had not come. Because destiny is real. And she's not mild-mannered. She will come around and hit you in the face and knock you over and before you know what hit you, you're naked - stripped of everything you thought you knew and everything you thought you didn't know - and there you are! A bloody nose, bruises all over you, and naked. And it's the most beautiful thing.

May you never...

In a swamp, as in meditation, you begin to glimpse how elusive, how inherently insubstantial, how fleeting our thoughts are, our identities. There is magic in this moist world, in how the mind lets go, slips into sleepy waters, circles and nuzzles the banks of palmetto and wild iris, how it seeps across dreams, smears them into the upright world, rots the wood of treasure chests, welcomes the body home. And everything turns in circles and spirals with the cosmic heart until infinity. Everything has a vibration that spirals inward or outward - and everything turns together in the same direction at the same time. This vibration keeps going; it becomes born and expands or closes and destructs - only to repeat the cycle again in an opposite current. Like a lotus, it opens or closes, dies and is born again. Such is also the story of the sun and moon, of me and you. Nothing truly dies.

His misty eye of the mountain below...

I know these scars will bleed...

It's just another night

and I'm staring at the moon.

I saw a shooting star

and thought of you.

I sang a lullaby

by the waterside and knew,

if you were here,

I'd sing with you.

You're on the other side,

as the skyline splits in two,

I can see the stars -

I wonder, do you see them, too?

Lamp-lit streets...

As night falls, let the day's troubles slip away into the darkness and rest well knowing tomorrow brings a new day, a new chance to do things better, a new opportunity to make things right. And when the new day dawns, awaken a little wiser, a little older, a little more prepared for the future. That's simply the pattern of life, my friends, a tapestry of light threaded with darkness, laughter threaded with tears, hope threaded with despair, wisdom threaded with failure, insight threaded with regret. It's just how we learn and grow as humans, and that's okay. It's enough to end each day knowing we've done our best and we'll do our best again tomorrow.

The day I die...

Even when I close my eyes...

He once had a dream of becoming a beautiful poet, but upon an unfortunate series of events some of those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that he wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken. But he didn't really mind, because he knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted, and then losing it to know what true freedom is.

Endings are abstruse, mystic and unreal. They are but depleted beginnings purposed to be substituted with newer ones. A transition of outlook and time, similar to our differing moods before and after slumber. Before the act we witness an exhaustion, a sulkiness but on-gaining consciousness; we're rejuvenated and good humored. The wakefulness is the new beginning whereas the disturbance we perceive each night is the weariness of each day. So there never really is an end, all that there is, are beginnings. Beginnings which are promising, which offer hope, which give us a new leash on life, which neither denounce nor belittle, rather soothe and console by reconstructing the broken pieces of yesterday, mending and reinforcing them with courage and beauty like never before.