The mind’s Perpetual Orbit
Words are neither born nor die; they haunt the air, slip through the seams of time, waiting for a mind lonely enough to listen.
Words are neither born nor die; they’re shards of light caught in the palm, pulled from the net of time, woven into something only we know the meaning of.
Some arrive sweet, some sting like salt on an open wound, bleeding the truth. Sometimes silence enters the room, settling between the lines, guarding the secrets we’re not brave enough to say out loud.
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Words are neither born nor die; they lie buried deep inside time’s well.
Yet, some days the well is dust-dry. We delve into the depths, scraping the dust of time for a single word, only to name an emotion still warm from being born. Only to face the fire, the tangle of feelings we willingly walk into.
The heart whispers, “This is wild, this is madness,” yet we face it anyway, letting the flame rewrite us.
This wild and necessary madness, the so-called Love, a vine wrapping itself around our soul’s bone.
The one without which, living would be only an empty husk.
