This Is All We Have

I sit here alone as the sun comes slowly to rest. Voices of strangers give out laughter and intriguing tones toward conversation. And as I sit I wonder what each their stories are, I wonder what brings, couples, families, and strangers here at this time, to this place to join?

I come to create, to hopefully find words among this strange world of flesh and material. I wonder if there are others like me at this time? I wonder if anyone around me is seeking the same thing, maybe they are but in a different way? Maybe they seek to draw a story for a painting. Or maybe they look to design something from what they see.

So much is to be thought and wondered as strangers come and go. Some look happy, while others hold to misery. What brings them to these states? What has happened that has brought them happiness or misery? So many people so many stories.

To think, we are all like our own little book with our own plots, mysterious, pain, love and heroes. Endless the world truly is and endless are our thoughts till we close our eyes. But never do we truly think about that. Never truly do we truly imagine death till it is our time.

Even when one of love fades, time slowly takes the thought of death and we lay in our pain of our loss. We lay in it instead of living, instead of seeking a adventure and growing our peace, growing our happiness

Death is something we so easily take for granted. We walk the streets as if life is like the stars endless, as if there is no end. Some of us never get that push we need to truly live. Some get it but they never truly needed it. Some come to illness before they see what life, this vibrant flower. It's this maze of excitement. This garden we must tend to day in and day out. Through all seasons and watch as new things grow. Watch as we plant with each new season with something new.

Our hearts are fragile but we act as if they are not. As if they are built of stone with no weakness. Even upon a crushed heart we break only for a moment. Then so quickly find a wooden box to lock it all away, placing it beneath the heads of our beds. Hoping we will forget all about it. But each night we sleep, each morning we wake. We feel it, we feel it beating against the wooden box we have placed it in.

It knocks ever so gentle like a young child to a door. And no matter how much we try to ignore it, it is there and we hear it. We hear its cries, its pain, it hopes that we will open it once again and hold it tightly to our chest.

Our lives are a song, a melody, and we compose it. We set each note, each tone, and even the speed at which we play it. We play our hearts like a piano, gently or roughly, softly or wildly. There is no wrong way or right way. But like anything you must care for it. Polish it, tune it, and cherish it.

For our first heart is our only heart. Our only instrument of love, strength, and happiness. The mind can only do so much. And the mind cares not of your heart. But of the efficiency at which you can carry out actions to survive. Like a computer it will do as you command, but some things are best left to your heart. Are best left to the gut that which your heart has given you.

Breathe in life for it is all you have. Care for your body, your mind, your heart, and your soul. For that is all you have, you are a soul encased in beauty through and through. And all the strength, love, and beauty you will ever need and should see is from you. Look at yourself like you would a beautiful mountain, strong, gracious, and powerful. Take care of your body like that of plant. Only taking in the sun like happiness. Only taking in what is needed to grow. To root yourself so strong in yourself that, no words, no actions will remove you from who you are. Take care of your mind like water. Forming to what ever knowledge you can gain. What ever mistakes you make learn, what ever pain you endure grow. What ever books you read take note.

Life is all we have and us is all we have. So share wisely and care intensely with yourself. Life is bitter sweet, but the sweet is what we most always remember. For the bitter can always be washed away with a new flavor.