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I write solitudes and tragedies.
Ones that brew deep behind the shades of the mind. There all is murky, and nothing black or white. Say your prayers, oh you who wish to venture in. Without them you will perish.
The darkness is peace and the light warmth. Or is it spine chilling and and despairing? I've long forgotten. Within grows a tree, or a gem, or a boat. Yes, all for one and one for all. Both are like that, swallowing everything in their path and leaving none untouched.
Scars are deep and unhealing. Even the wise women can't cure them. Forget their pain and mourn your loss. Loss is the greater of the two burdens. Beneath your skin resides the answer, and you must shed it to learn the truth.
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When I was a child I spoke as a child, thought as a child, and saw as a child. The world around me was simple and sincere, because there was no other way known to me yet.
Then, in the shadows deep, within the cracks that began to show in time, sprung notions and cookie cutters for me to fit myself within. Just as those before me had done.
Now I am refined and polished, yet simply unworthy still. Oh, to become as a little child again. With clear eyes and golden heart, both simple and sincere.
How I desperately loathe the things of which I am fashioned after now.
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