Ream of Thoughts

Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be His name, but hollow is my heart. vast expressions by untimely deaths of little pieces to my heart and soul crumble before me in the midst of affected smiles; I can't stand it. I am overwhelmed by the grief you and I have caused to circulate within my veins so carelessly discarded as if our ties mean nothing to you. and they don't. obviously. I can hear your nonchalant protests that only magnify my anger towards your jaded complacence - why can't I ever write about anything happy? - does it sound the same? dissatisfied with the outcome though I was the one who created the script. How can pretense hurt? this script can't work anymore. I'd prefer to re-write your character into one that wants to and would and could be there the way I selfishly would prefer designed. but we are not Pen and Paper. Humans are a bit more complicated than puppets on a stage. I have to leave this performance. I just wish it didn't have to hurt doing it. Cut the strings for me? But be gentle. These bonds pinch at my skin and peels off layers of my being and yet the pain makes me feel alive; it makes me FEEL. Confusing pain for sentiment is distractingly a point of idiocy. His will be done Because as I write my own script, I show my lacking abilities to grasp a realistic concept. Because if God gave me the script and said "Re-write it," I'd write you back in it hoping for a different outcome each time no matter how many scraps of paper it would take. I'm more than certain that there is a universe out there where that script actually exists as a reality. I'm more than certain of it. Somewhere out there, there is a world with bright, golden-yellow skies, where there is no need to work but people do it anyway because it makes them happy and so we'd have clean parks and home gardens where we planted our fruits, vegetables, and weed. Drinks in the purple moonlight shared by lovers whose only desire is to please the other, You and I, pregnant with child, in love, Professors of Philosophy, again a profession by choice not forced by society, money, or politics - just driven by love and passion. Mata deau sono hi made --- "Until the day we meet again" my fellow writer in that universe - His will be done.