Painting With Dreams

A picture is worth a thousand words and yet in our imaginary bubble of existence, we use words stemming from scarcity. Abundantly vocal, we attempt to fill the void and so endeavor to paint our world with thoughts, emotions, feelings and concepts. There is no end to the variety of Life.

Out of the storehouse of 'experience', we derive purpose in life continuously yearning and seeking the ever-elusive Chalice of Eternity. Why else is it that we wake from slumber and stumble into one dream after another? Our every step and ensuing action defines our permeation into the Land of Life and Living and yet it is never enough.

Obviously, what it is that we say we are seeking is not the thing itself.

Between conceptualizations and thought-provoking words from the dead, could there ever be enough room for us to unfold? When one does not allow oneself to unfold, there will never be such a thing a just being yourself.

Covering ourselves with dirty laundry, we pretend that our finest shell deserves the utmost respect and care lest we become mind-less barbarians wandering to and fro devoid of purpose and life. Entertaining ourselves, we become something else and suppress all that is which we may come to label as something of our nature, hidden deep away from our prying eyes.

Sooner or later you will one day find yourself shaking your head and saying to yourself: "What was I thinking."

And then, there will be no being.

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