There is too much significance in all of this. Too much want, too much thirst. There are too many stars in the sky, and there's too much light in all of them. We attach ourselves too strongly to the ebb and flow of time and its consequences, and we harbour too much hope to be healthy.

We think in terms of absolutes, and the sharpness of the blacks and the whites skew the way we think. They push us around, and topple us over. There are many things that have been left to us, to our own decisions- but we take it too lightly. We fight and tackle the storms that rage against us, and more often than not, we emerge holding the flag of victory. Strangely enough, its white and wordless.

You reduce me to poetry, my friend.
You break me into tiny little pieces, each piece weighing down on the others, and all of them drops in the tides of time.
That's all we are, and that's all we're worth anymore. We're born, we leave your clumsy footsteps wherever we can, in soil and water and hearts, and then we carelessly fall over to our death. And then there are tears for us, from our birds and our trees and our clouds. And of course, we get washed away in the grand scheme of things. Because we're just not grand enough.

So we cry. Tears do not hurt, its only their reasons that do. Deal with it, baby.

Tears do not speak enough words to justify thoughts, even to myself. You asked me questions, and I asked you mine. You answered, and I answered. You told me things and I didn't respond.

We walk along dusty roads, up stairs and feel the walls along the way, in the hope that they'll show us where we're headed. We look for clues in speech, and think through touch. And soon we'll know we've had enough. Soon we're bored, and we try to find other ways to live our lives, perhaps with more fullness.

This is beautiful to someone as blind as I am.
So are you, even to pieces.