Thoughts.

Blessings

My nature is an odd one. I love passionately. With craze. I love with a coolness that slowly and quietly drips. I try ripping both sides of love out of my chest and replacing it with something of the purest nature. It works all of the time, unless I am writing something like this. Then I don't know what I am thinking of when I write, half of the time. It's kind of like when you don't know what you want, but you sort of do at the same time.

I wrote story about a man living by the seaside when I flew out to this place where one of my friends live. My heart twisted with disgust and pain. I really just wanted to go home. Don't get me wrong. The place was brilliant. Beautiful. Ravishing. I was simply never materialistic enough to care. I don't care about owning a large house or a huge garden. I don't dream of new cars and fancy dresses or skirts. And I don't really mind wearing those little black shoes without socks, really, because why would I when my feet appreciate the coolness those shoes provide? And I say this with the deepest sincerity. Why should I care about anything materialistic? If there is anything I need when it comes to money, it'll probably be having the means to educate my own children so that they don't become corrupt like this snake-like society. In the end, it is all about what is in the home. In that moment, as I was travelling through those lights and seemingly bright and colorful, well-lit cities, I just wanted to fly back home.

Or I simply wanted to fly, but that's another story all by itself.

It all happened back at home, on a sunny day, in my old school, back when I was quite young and simple-minded, when all I worried about was how I would fit in. It's astonishing how children don't understand how silly that really is. Some people, on the hand, never realize that. They just never grow up. They just never understand. Or maybe they simply don't have such a sharp memory as mine and cease to forget. I find that silly as well. These trifles in our lives are what really matter to us when we are eighty. How we desire for everything to pass quickly and are equally quick to make judgements about how times are bad...No. Times are beautiful. Times are always beautiful simply because they are times, because you've been given a soul, because you can breathe. You have many beautiful blessings. You are the one at fault, not the times. Don't scath them. Don't hurt me. I enjoy the moment I secretly stroke the bush I pass next to the garage each morning when I head off to school. It's the most beautiful thing in the world.

We've just become ungrateful, and with ungratefulness comes the lack of faith. And lack of faith simply makes us unhappy.