Its funny how feelings proceed from overwhelming desire to conquer to distaste and angst which moves you to conclude (in all your naive tendencies) that love is the greatest form of pain. Tired of allegories, of words best heard, best pondered, but unripe to define what ought to serve. I am fueled by that spark I cannot fathom, nearly deadened, missing its supposed destiny by a sly, swift swerve. And others speak of it loftily as passioned engine, poised to stand erect amidst tests of resiliency. But I never surrendered to the conventional dictum at how everything begins. Time is a pain in the ass. How much more depth I might have to reach to subscribe to its antithesis, i'd never know. but the greatest pain must be endured and only when we move past such formidable obstacle, can we feel again.
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you tried to be green, but it came of red. and yet, he laughed. laughed as if its the acme of the ends of comedy. as if its the last laugh he will have to have for his whole life. half sincere, yet passionate. rooted beyond words. unforced in its masked brashness. as if its the crude version of that one thing he can never say.
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how and why do they not interlock even if our hearts and soul desire! oh, how cruel fate is! how agonizing it is to feel every bit of misery, because you can't, just can't, express your feelings to people who specially mattered. on how well you speak of ideals, courage and ones stand on wars, but can't even finish your own battles. for the one you hold dear, you insatiably desire to excel even more, as if you can almost see fire from your tail-end brewing gases of prime heat to propel you to paths never before tread. to actualize dreams wherein commencing is hard, to shape a quarter of your being resonant of some societal dictum, to accommodate his schema of what is an what is not. why can some appear deliberate yet end up achieving it? how deliberate is deliberate and when can we say we have achieved what ought to be measured in the objectives we set. when can we affirm the realities of impossibilities if we run out of alternatives. every bit of you wanted to express every bit of love, which in turn, is everything that makes you, you. how often do we love? how often do we stumble on someone we think addresses our vulnerabilities? how often does this chance of cultivating the seeds of something we might become, pass? it is a silent love. repressed into the subconscious. and yet the desire to communicate this secrecy, what words can i ever describe it?! if the mouth could not muster strength to speak, and our motors shudder at the very thought and the slightest bit of attempt to translate the nonverbal, what ways can we embark, that exclaims the importance of your personhood to my existence.
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love is transcendent in its capacity, its full breadth unfathomable even by time, distance, and resist the corporal temptations. no matter how much he's changed, you'll revel at the prospect of who he is and what he is to himself, to others, and to his dreams. it shares the core of who you are, and who will you become. it is unbased on what the common notion proposes and thrives in the unexplainable, yet unbreakable.
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