Thursday, March 28, 2013

This Post Has a Title. This is it.

There seems this endless desire to know me. To talk of repercussions and consequences like past mistakes set fire to future destinations. Like old haunts black tomorrow and days past can't be escaped. From what I've learned, the past is nothing more than fragments to collect and stare back on whenever some new being gets close enough to force you to dig them up. Selfish taker, what gives you the right to search through me like an old, found, journal; learn my lines to tuck me safely away, beneath your bed - forgotten, but a comfort knowing I'm nearby? Selfish taker, I'll Bogart shove you on a plane and urge you to forget me, while you swear you care and fly away - I'll be your fragment soon; whenever some foul, wretch encroaches on your troubled past. You'll find me. Haunts roam like that. So crush them smaller, Darling, stomp through the shards and shattered glass until they're more like salt and pure like sand. Light the drifters and burn the pages and maybe soon, we'll all be free. Perhaps we already are. Hold fast, for here exists by time old somewheres; but sometimes somewhere is someplace someone shouldn't speak of. It makes us human - it makes us, us - isn't that good enough without revelation? Leave me silent and love the truths you earn. Who cares what the legos are made of, just build something timeless and enjoy the standing castle...

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