My life is love. just the word isn't right. i would love to let the love free just i am not sure if it had grown the wings strong enough. my life is a bird. my life is a land
there is such a deep ocean of love washing my shores. every time taking something in and rarely leaving something behind. there are almost no washed out sticks of passion, there are no stones of desire, there are no pieces of amber reminding the victory and the hope. i heard someone say "if you are lucky you will never fall in love again". i haven't heard anyone being lucky
in few decades you learn how to accept it- just like a fact that your tea got cold. unavoidable. but it takes more than just a time to give up. and i am not sure if i have what it takes.
it resembles a bit of a dream that repeats itself for years and years, and every time you don't get too far from the previous episode. i feel how the curiosity to dream it again overrules me and after short bargaining session takes all of my balance and leaves me with despair. leaves me with those weak wings to be blasted by the winds above the grey and powerful ocean. of unknown, of love. leaves me alone with unavoidable destiny.
i feel that those last minutes to home are the most excruciating. my wings get sore, i lose my faith and fall. and it never hurts. the ocean and the sky turns up and down exchanging places and it feels like i have never stop fluttering my wings, like i kept on going. and i never stopped feeling. the painless moment is endless falling itself.
the endless course visited Robert Frost in June 1922 when he was up all night finishing his poem "New Hampshire" and has finally finished it when he realized that morning had come, he went for a walk and got the idea for "stopping by woods on a snowy evening" he wrote it about the snowy evening and the little horse as "if I'd had a hallucination" in just "a few minutes without strain"
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.