A Desperation.

It’s a minuscule event in a time of undertakings that encompass all you can see or have heard of.

There aren’t many people around, not a soul. Yet far away sits an imagination. A product of the right light and a. rightly proportionate darkness. A well of wishes, a silent murmur, and in these dark and voyage filled times, there never was a thought so kind. So kind as to levitate, over their heads. The heads that conceived them. Shrouded in a blanket of uncertainty. A little, but a tad too much to ask. “Was I supposed to go that path, or am I right to stay?” But never did a bird not take flight, with wings wide asunder. Never did it stop to think, where the warmth of the world truly lies. For all it can think of is where it is headed, and all it can believe in, is the idea that’s embedded in it’s heart, brain and spirit. A murmur, a thought, an idea.

What is it that separates certainty, from uncertainty. What is it the separates a rightful cause from an unjustified one. I for one, cannot say. I’m just a fool who followed my thoughts. Followed them night and day. With fear from uncertainty, that certain things may never see the light of day. That the light of day, isn’t where certain things belong.

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