(no subject)
thank goodness there are ideas. little turns inside your mind. like the pebbles displaced by my feet below. within each thought, a step, a hope, a glance to what could be. what was once magic, now is just fact. lose the idea and the light of reality is shown. to think is to dream. to love the idea, to love the dream; is to love the silhouette. that which has no substance, cannot be held, cannot love back. is it a shame to love that which cannot appreciate, reciprocate, or even be aware? when do the the vague forms in the mist ahead solidify? is it apprehension, fear, or self-deprivation that holds us back those few remaining feet?