If there is anyone who have finished there process with agents Please hmu!
Just another boy. The first thing the boy knew was blood. An embryo only cares about seeping warm blood. Then came the milk. The boy gave his weakness to one who could help. Crying more than most. For longer than most, the boy was nurtured with warm milk. Weaning was tough. Weaning is still tough on the boy. The boy has read plenty myths. On suffering and beauty. In his infantile youth he was proud of being a hero. Proud of being bright, moral and fun. But before heroes there were kings, warriors, shamans and lovers. Men who would give up everything for nothing. Forgotten but free. Pride is now a cardinal sin. The hero now looks up to the old man who rides stick horses with children. The man that dares to conceal insight in the madness of child's play. The boy now indulges in the oldest thirst there is. With no one to impose weaning on him. He has to prune his own branches, like some strange eagle that plucks out its own feathers.
"I don't know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely"
The way we end up normalizing poking on each other wounds is just out of control
Trees. In those distant days, some of them were revered. Some were too tough for elephants to chew through. Some were too subtle to be broken by the wind. Some had ambitious roots that dug deep into the earth, it's crust at least. Some got turned into paper for man to record his emptiness. Then there is the seed that is making its way to the surface at this moment. Full of vitality. A poem the earth writes on the sky. Does the earth know short poems and long poems? A band that I listen to sneer when people mourn for a kid but won't cry for a king. 21 Pilots, you've probably heard of them. No one has lived longer than a dead child. When I look at a child and reflect at how wiser I am, a part of me feels like I am killing humour. Like I am closing a window on the sunlight that fuels my germination. Loss of soul is the sickness that was most detested in those distant days. Now it stands as majestic as a hill. The view from the top of a hill is decent. The view of a hill from a plain is decent too.
A dead friend once managed to convince me that we don't breath air, it's the air that breaths us. We were drunk and causeless. Idiots with no shame. Like the angels that fly because they take themselves lightly. Sadly feelings like these don't take for long. Unless your Diogenes the dog.It's no fun forcing the air in and out your lungs. It's no fun drinking outside the tavern. Unless you are the oriental master drinking under the moon. The moon that gets coral reefs in a naughty mood. Most of us want in on the action inside the tavern. Me too. I'm impatient with the moon. Always telling it what I want. Giving it meaning. Calling it meaningless some other time. Then I get back into the tavern. Misery really does love company. The newcomers they like pleasure and power. For those who have tasted felicity, pleasure has lost its vitality. Power has become distasteful. But there is room for pain. Hi to all the Lord Pain (Naruto) fans in this tavern. I hope you see the moon grow full this week.