A short reflection.
What are we, if we are not learning or adjusting? Simply, we are content. Complacent so that our views have morphed around an individual movement, subjugating experience and pre-conceived knowledge into a vacuum sealed packed with notions of faith and determination.
It is in our minds that we conceive longing. If, for some reason, a gentleman or lady were to ask you, "Where do you see yourself in the future?" Then a fraction of hesitance would perhaps inflict your situation. Maybe you'd be here, or there? O rmaybe you would possess this or that. But our visions of the future are based off the past, and if the past is where they are based, perhaps this is where they belong.
We cognate new viewpoints and new ideologies about life and reckoning. But what is it that makes us spawn fruition? How do we ever know that we've accomplished what we've set out to. Is it somewhere within the foundation of inner thought that suggests accomplishment?
We are sometimes as fruit, which ripens and falls to the earth in expired fate. But in other moments, we are as the sea, cresting and bounding over brethren of salted wounds, designing us to persevere into what is more than likely our inevitable doom. Love.
But to say love is inevitably doomed is fallacy, just as to say a rock could never fly, or a sparrow could never swim. The perceptions upon which we grant our common sense is a weight that can move mountains. In the end, it is the grasp on ourselves that is the determining factor in external forces.
There are too few of us who experience hardship, or perhaps too many. As we lay comfortably, we begin to feel a tugging at our ways, the gravity of hence pulling us toward a new beyond, an evolution. And in such a moment, the stars glisten with ambiance, protruding their radiance downward on our shadowed faces.
To love is to suffer, and to suffer, is too long for love. And in the great many pathways in which love stays our hand, it too liberates our inner-most ethers. Combining with that of compassion and permutation so as to grant a true freedom of will. Heartbreaks are like midnight. The world sleeps, and yet it awakens.