To love and be loved for all that you are and are not, to grasp the truth that lets you live and die and fight. To withstand the causes of everything that crushes. A life cherished to the brim, its sweetness infallible, its intentions pure, its consequences, inevitable. A painful thing to behold, yet glorious in its reaches. An exploration of the unseen, an introspection of the trivial, a longing for immortality, a sense of being, to be more than existing. But how? How to look for it when your heart longs for it? How to raise the banner, to surrender in the name of your emotions, respecting passion, respecting that one thing that makes you you, yet you who pique at the height of your egotism, you are strangled by self-will that is loosely based on conceit. And when you finally stake that dagger into your consciousness, the plot darkens luring you into a clutch that cannot be saved, into the dungeons where chains become your arms, all too resonant of the mighty tragedies of Shakespeare. No cries can redeem it, no will can reforge the pieces of shards that come crashing into ones history of bleakness. Why am I crawling in pain, why do I kiss the mud when I can step on it, what becomes of the weight I willingly want to throw away. To lighten my being and go back to my innocence when my slate has not been tarnished, when I have not known anything, when knowing if I have really known something is a thing to be guarded.