If we could find it, would everything be right?
That feels like the implication. What is the inner stirring that demands such effort? Why so much drive to become something more?
Evolution spurs life on in a constant energy of betterment because there is something better to become.
Underlying pattern in this equation implies the possibility. That possibility starts to loom like a glimpsed spirit in a sleepless night. It lures you on to another, more delirious place. A place that holds more strangeness, that has too much meaning to be missed.
Alright death, alluring gate-keeper, ender of my seemingly endless living, what is it you have to reveal? So inexorably linked with the mystery of waking up everyday, how can you possibly be ignored?
The passion I stare at you with- I am not morbid, I do not have a death wish. I am just so blisteringly aware of being alive that your presence ignites my senses, fanning the heat in each moment’s touch until I can hardly stand the unbearable bliss of perceiving it.
