Life often comes at me like a rush,
A stream of consciousness,
Raging like steroids and shattered egos.
I’ve noticed my music taste reflects that -
That heat, that fire, that effort to stay at the pace at which my life flashes by my eyes.
I’m at a crossroads, and I know the end of every path, and yet it is so difficult to choose.
When I see the trees shining in the gentle glow of the fading horizon, it gives me peace. I am always stuck wrestling with the waves, I never stop to take a breath.

When the dying sun shines it’s light upon us, we are put under a spotlight, we are scrutinized.
The clouds of night covers ours tracks, ephemerally. The moon watches in silence.
And when the dawn comes, the shining permeates our skin and flesh, turning it white, entering our bones, touching our souls, burning our walls to the ground, revealing to ourselves the state of humanity.
No matter what, the sun shall continue to shine, the moon shall continue to glow; it is up to man to understand his existence.

Purpose is a difficult thing: when I meet people, I feel inspired. Their experiences, despite all I know about its faults and shortcomings, seem so much more real to me then those wise words written in tomes as if all of the essence of life lives there.
Living can only be done by those who really live, with freedom.
I see now that the world is in a reality beyond good or evil, it is beyond darkness and light, it is all about how man acts, and how he lives with his actions.
Purpose is just a directive, but without it we cannot take responsibility for our actions, and thus, our lives.

My love works beyond what I expect from it. When I imagine, I feel a muted contentedness.
All seems to be well, I see the mountains and skyscrapers, the attempts to reach up into the sky for answers.
There is beauty in the world.
It is that the saturated, hyperworld of speed and work keeps me from being sensitive, from really knowing myself. And purpose is really just self knowledge. Who are you, who were you, who will you be.
Life is a paradox of change, where the only constant is that of flux. We are just spinning the wheels of time, after all.
So what is there to fear but ourselves?

Today a fly landed in front of me and started walking. Then it stopped. It had died. I went to write this poem, then it started walking again.