It all comes back. Solace I mean.
Will history justify those who exist without justifications?
Are we responsible for the beginning, middle, and end of our stories?
-He who holds the pen, holds the world - what of those without hands;
Is their story written for them?
It all comes back ...
The smoky bars, shot after shot. Shit, he's been hit!
Get him a doctor ... Or another drink.
My mind's murky, it hurts to think.
It is how it is ...
Everyday a little more Sisyphean - are we all his children?
Is this fate reserved for those who choose to challenge the gods?
It remains so.
Live. Breathe. Eat. Sleep. Rinse. Repeat.
What comes of this ...
Are we wasting time?
It goes.
Broken glasses. Broken promises. Broken dreams. Broken people.
Tears. Bitter salty reminders that we each contain a little bit of the source of life.
From dust came life. From life, comes dust.
Where did the dust come from?
Acceptance.
I think. Therefore I am.
Well ... I drink, thereforeiam?
I should stop. Before the poison consumes my liver.
-Or my brain cells.
Renewal.
Washing of hands of those who have hurt.
Will they hurt again?
Time will tell.
Forgiveness.
All hurt which was caused must go.
What replaces it?
You chose.
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