January 18, 2009
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~ Everybody has their own story. A story in which they can choose where they want it to begin, and how they want it to end. Many stories don't have endings, but in telling ourselves they do, we begin to believe in these words, the words that have no truth to bare the soul's consciousness into a sleepless dream. Our beliefs shapes these stories, giving them profound structure. We entrust in the idea that we are unbreakable, and right when we think all is well, the story we created is burning, and is being pushed so far into the ground, we cannot tell apart the dust from the ashes.

We burn, too. For all of our stories come with secrets, secrets which we try to unravel. The more we try to figure them out, the farther away they slip from our grasp and drift away, so we can never have the chance to uncover them. We are not held in the care of our own stories. They abandon us, giving us the guilt of misconception. Sometimes our stories make us feel alone, like nobody else in the world is worth the while of its breath. At the same time, they can make us feel so content, that every single detail of life can hold the special touch of happiness. These stories, our stories, is what shapes us, and makes us who we are.

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Silversmile said...
Feb. 2, 2009 at 7:49 pm
Veryy Nice!
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