Loud is his echo...

Deep in the valley, a lone ember rose,

drifted the ash and billowed the smoke.

Here in the wind and the withering cold,

burden the heavens and watch him go.

Come to the willow, a cradle of stone, 

lay down your weapons, the young and the old.

Here where the waves meet the rippling foam,

red is the river that carries him home.

The stallion flees the stable...

Life is what we make it to be; maybe it belongs to other people or it can be our special one. The difference is that the first we sit and watch and basically we know the ending but the second is defined by us and requires lots of work and effort to define the way we want to live by. It is a journey with no end in sight, no distance measured behind, just going. It is a faith similar to the faith in the universe but this one is just faith in yourself and your capability to define a path with a vision of the future that you really can not see but rather feel. A religion, where you are god, and the goal is genesis. 

Nobody else makes me feel like...

It's not for me to tell...

Have you ever had a dream that you were certain was real, only to wake up and realize that everyone and everything in the dream was really you? I was told that's actually how our reality works, as a dream in which we think we are individuals, but eventually, like in all dreams, we will wake up. Except in this dream we do not wake up to realize we are still in the world, we awake from the world to realize that we are the universe.

He sits to be heard. To speak without being judged. To listen and rekindle the ancient art of listening with an open heart. To spill tears and laughter, and to see truth. To have parts of himself revealed. To speak words spoken that shoot into the heart like a lightning strike. To be pulled into the expansive river of consciousness that he didn't know existed. To experience a oneness with himself and the universe that feels like floating along on gentle rapids. He yearns to have his cynical mind opened by a shooting star's approving appearance, or to watch the clouds pass over the face of the moon and be flushed with the deep sense of belonging.

To all the pain and suffering...

A field full of fireflies...

If I had it my way, 

I would blink and we'd disappear.

Somewhere, somehow,

watching the stars come out.

We'd have a record on,

dance a little by the fire placе,

thеn we'd just lay.

If I had it my way.

I guess I'm not better alone...

He knew that there are many ways for a heart to break. Sometimes it's from the crowding of life, the compression of responsibility, and burdens that squeezed you until you couldn't breathe anymore. Even though your lungs were working just fine. And sometimes it's from the casual cruelty of a fate that took you far from where you had thought you would end up. And sometimes it's age in the face of youth. But sometimes it's just because you're looking into the eyes of your lover and your gratitude for having them in your life overflows. Because you showed them what was on the inside and they didn't run scared or turn away, they accepted you and loved you and held you in the midst of your passion or your fear. Or your combination of both.

Live my day as if there was no past...

He closed his eyes and began to weave a story. He abandoned the familiar threads he'd played so many times before and went in search of something new, no longer wanting a journey fed on pain or guilt. He needed one that could replace those wounds with strength, with resolve, with confidence. He needed a tale that could heal and build anew. The words warbled and fell, haphazard, chaotic, settling without flight. His forehead creased, yet he persisted. He let his fingers wander on their own, reached out with his mind. He chased the fleeting story he'd glimpsed once before. In his dreams he'd felt a hint of it: something wild, untamable, a thing sprung whole and flawless from the instant of creation.

A gate, a hedge, the same low hill...

Engraved on my mind...

Sever all ties. The words in his mouth like ash. It was not the coldness of the words that horrified him, their utter opposition to anything human, but rather his own affinity for them, the way he was drawn to this vision of solitude with a feeling almost of nostalgia. He had the kind of loneliness that battles everything, that makes a person strange forever.

They say in extreme moments time will slow, returning to its unmoving core, and standing there, it seemed as if everything stopped. Within the stillness, I felt the old, irrepressible ache to know what my point in the world might be. I felt the longing more solemnly than anything I'd ever felt, even more than my old innate loneliness. What came to me was a flicker of a dream of the lost boy who somehow still remembered how to conjure it. And how he carries that dream from place to place, like a sad, decaying hope.

As I get older I get more afraid...

Been finding it hard to be kind,

since I've been lost out there, 

losing my mind.

Only one knew my name,

nothing left but the autumn rain.

Drag me around,

let me drown.

I'm a crack in the pavement...

They keep moving the line...

Nekoč, 

morda, 

nekje, 

nekdo.

I stare at the stars and wonder if they are the same ones I swore upon so long ago. And even though there are so many and they look so close together, I know they are light years apart. The glitter in the sky looks as if I could scoop it all up in my hands and let the stars swirl and touch one another, but they are so distant, so very far apart, that they cannot feel the warmth of each other, even though they are made of burning. This is the secret of the stars, I tell myself. In the end, we are alone. No matter how close you seem, no one else can touch you.

Don't want to draw the line...

It struck me, sharp and hard, that I had been given so many chances to save my soul that my entire life had been constructed around these chances. That was my nature, going from temptation to temptation, not to sin, but to be redeemed. Now I no longer live in the beginning, I have lost it forever. Now I find myself is in the middle, knowing neither the end nor the beginning, and yet knowing that I am in the middle, coming from the beginning and going towards the end. I see that life is determined by these two facets, of which I know only that I don't not know them at all.

A sun killer lullaby...

Hold me like the pebbles in your hand...

No one is strong enough to withstand seeing too much of the universe's plan in advance. It must be revealed daily. And we must be led to it and through it slowly. There isn't any timing that seems like the right timing to be shattered into dust. There isn't any plan life could present where I would willingly agree to be broken into unglueable pieces. I just wouldn't, and what a tragedy that would be. My controlling things would prevent the dust required to make the new me I so desperately desire. Adversity breeds advancement. And I am ready to ascend. 

All amber lights and warning bells...

I'm just staring at the ceiling,

can't describe this feeling.

I've got in my head,

I'm out of body in my bed.

And I'm just searching up my symptoms,

desperate to fix them.

I'll do anything,

because lately I've been spiraling,

I'm not feeling like myself and

nothing ever seems to help.

Call me mister know it all...

His life was at a teetering point, and he was about to fall off the edge of a cliff. He was spiraling down a black pit, and there was nothing that was going to stop him. Once you're falling through the air, it's impossible to turn yourself around. The gravity of my actions was pulling him down, down, down. He saw black until sanity began to creep from the confines of his mind, leaving little more than a skeleton-like remnant of who he once was. Not inanimate but inactive, still alive but very much aloof, he started to passively float through the steps of life, numb.

As seemed to be the theme of my days recently, I was questioning my reality, questioning my dreams, questioning my mind, questioning what was real, what was imagined, and then questioning why. I was feeling displaced, like an outsider, as though I were simply doing a pale impersonation of myself. And not even a good impersonation either, with steps too long, breaths too quick, smile too wide, blinks too slow. Get a hold of yourself, idiot. So I searched the room, searched my world, interrogating the shadows, prodding the corners, acknowledging the spaces, seeking for something to ground myself. Anything at all.

Well I hope you do...

You will hear thunder and remember him, And think: he wanted storms. The rim of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson. And his heart will be on fire. Despite what it may seem, Time does indeed exist here, in small amounts. Feint forces of the universe they were, nearly indiscernible from the nothingness. A wind of change is blowing at him from behind and he needs to push forward with iron determination and a mental clarity hereto before unknown to him. Something in the microcosm that didn't even have a name went bling and against all the laws of probability, he is starting to open his eyes.

You're the only place I need...