Post by lexxus on Jun 17, 2007 21:39:44 GMT -5
this provokitive way of thinking profounds me. How can something so cunningly shallow to the world be so deep and hide such an enchantingly exciting yet peaceful gift? Such as a philosopher's poem in an unfinished book. Such a book can only be opened on special occasions, and refuses to shut until an outside force with death defining strenght pulls one away from its gradually increasing depth. Then with the upmost in force the book snaps closed just as quickly as if opened until the next chapter, stronger than the last is written. One would also have to read into it ever so carefully to understand the hidden message. but for the ever so slight moment the book is open, there's a powerful feeling full of emotions never felt, known or even come close to. Cherish every second as if the words would disappear, and remember it thorough and full. It's my little book of happy tears, full of ifs buts, and what abouts. Never forget the optimism and realistic times of every second of every page of every chapter and of every feeling that can never be felt exactly the same again.