Those Alive Don’t Understand

I am so grateful for writing; I truly, truly believe it has kept me alive this long – without it my life would be utterly meaningless. It provides the spark…the fire present in my flashing eyes, rejuvenating and filling the over-encumbered yet empty spaces in my heart, mind, and soul. I am nothing but an ant lost away from the colony. However, I feel I am away for good; a vagrant; a nomad – a sojourner that has traversed many roads and lived through an uncountable number of half, crescent, and full moons. The air of life has finally hit my dry lungs. I can speak. I can dream. Alas, I can live with pen in hand writing feverishly throughout all walks of life – through the downpours and enveloping fog of substances, beyond the limit of infinite, past the blinding light of complacency and indifference, but above all away from the fear of the unknown. I await the darkness to cloak me in its embrace, for I know only the cleverest and fair things arise out of the perceived nothing. It is the mind that churns and burns using the last of the midnight oil. And I know, somewhere hidden deep within the corners of black, under the radar flying low, lurking beneath an ocean of facades, lies one pure and simple thought. Are not those of the most refreshing kind? It, being my mind now, once lit up my puny, eager dreams with a vision unparalleled to anything mortal man can dream of – it was only white – and white only. A room lacking color, but present in one uniform of Hope. And on the wall written plainly for all to see said, “those who find don’t search; those who walk aimlessly don’t travel; those who talk plainly don’t speak; and those alive don’t understand; but, those who testify for the lives they live, write, and so to record conscious thought is to live as to breathe is be alive.”

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