Sam na oblaku
ne pustim dnevu da se budi,
vrtiljak trenutkov izmišljenih.
Maybe this was life in essence, time in its shrouded malleability. All of it a microcosmic round as the universe begged him to listen to its only message; none of it matters but love. So he allowed himself to feel it all: the fear, the anger, the sorrow, the subtle beauty leaking in through the cracks, the everythingness of pain, and in the end the love wrapped around it, soft and loud and invisible. All of it intrinsically connected, each moment a shared experience. Perfection was simply loving himself while broken, to move forward while still human. To strive for nothing but accepting exactly where he was at. To simply be here, now.
