Living the life of my shoes is impossible. My heart is like the Night Songstress, the Nightingale. The nocturnal song attracts my soulmate. I sit here and wait. I am still waiting for an answer but I know I may not receive it.
Singing at dawn, during the hour before sunrise.
Haha, what a monologue. I tried to smile before but it just didn’t work. I forgot what it is like to be truly happy or so I thought. Living my life in critically impossible because no one would ever understand. Once you have entered my world you can never exit.
“…The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds, and that’s what you’ve given me. That’s what I hope to give to you forever…” ~The Notebook~
If you are wondering why and who the Nightingale truly is? Well, it is my inner self, my pure side. That is never shown to the world because no one was able to bring it out or listen. Only a few know. Fractures of it come out in my writings but no one will ever see the true extent of it.
Memories and Dreams:
I am flying on the wings of my imagination. Everyone has a dream. All are different from the others. Mines are no different. I actually live for my dreams.
If I could
I’d slow the whole world down
I’d bring it to its knees
I’d stop it spinning round
But as it is
I’m climbing up an endless wall
No time at all
No time this time
By the way, from whom or what do you take guidance in how to better live the moments of your day? Our personal egos make our choices, yet for better perspective than we already have, where do we go, what source do we trust? Even, is there a possibility that a superior guiding source actually exists? It is all a dream. Life is all a dream. I live for my dream because the rest is all a nightmare. Everyone cause my simple nightmare.
Another Form of Art- Long, Slow, and Beautiful Dance:
I sit and out of respect for your art listened to you publicly extol an utterly unremarkable girl, trying to comfort myself with snide sister-woman comments like, “the poem he wrote for me was better.” Listen to your heart, which is another form of art. The mind is a wonderful anatomy.
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