Two Short Notes from Life

It's how We were:

The heart beat fast. Faster and faster yet. It wouldn’t stop, not now, not yet. It can’t. There isn’t time. If it were to stop then there would be no more time. Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what we mean, when we say there is no time, maybe it means we’ve run out and there is no more time, and so no more us. Something may continue but not us, not we, not the Who that we are.

If I let it continue then something will happen. Something has to, there just can’t be this forever, it wouldn’t work. And yet, here we are. Alone in this place, waiting, writing, staring.

It must be what it means. No more time, I mean. When we beat too fast, that’s our heart, fighting for the end, fighting for the last. Hoping, waiting, thinking ‘one more beat will make a difference, that’s what we need, just one more beat, and then, we’ll be gone, free. Forever.’

In Response to someone who thought they'd lost themselves, and just needed to be found:

literary ability has no relation to the mind, but to the soul, and when one is left alone for too long it pines to be free, but can only bleed through the cracks between the words.

A soul like yours, a true soul, is forever free and forever able to create all it wants.

Yet too much freedom can make you forget, make you lose sight of what was once bars of a cage, and through forgetting from whence you came makes you forget where you are going. 

All you need is to remeber,

And then, one day

It will all come rushing back, your true skill and talent in the literary rabbit hole,

But until then, it's ok,

We all get lost sometimes, we just have to find the one thing that can bring us back home