We see it often, pieces of ourselves writing a story, one of pain, one of joy, and one of love. In its existence it tells more truth than anyone or thing ever could. Even in the first glimpse before it falls, the passion caught can rival the finest storm. Its proclivity to capture the soul is perchance abstruse, for how is something that is created with so little capable of accomplishing so much? Humbling is the simple intricacy of it, just as light pours itself over darkness, cleansing it. One can easily see the perplexity of the moment through the unity of that which is grasped, and that which is not, but forget not that it was made so. Not for comprehension, for that is not its purpose, no.
Instead, trust that the importance of such a model of completion is meant not to accomplish a task as seen mortal, but to glimpse that which is to become, that which has yet to be named. Witness if you will the path that is led, over and again it changes, ambiguous to common thought, absent from habitual belief. It is required by absolution to occur not based on any system of control, for if one was to tame the wind, they would forget the beauty felt by each passing kiss. It falls, and so as it falls we stand in silent awe.
Ever moving, the trail left behind reminds us of what we have, and what we have lost. Nothing man creates has as much power, the faint smile of our lovely lady and the distance that the stones can travel all fall short. Sometimes thought of as weakness, shading our most beautiful gift, our perfect display of ourselves, is perhaps one of our biggest mistakes. It begs to be released. It prays to see you once more. However, it knows that as it did in the beginning, it will have at least one more audience at the end. For if there is one thing for certain, it is that there are two times in life that we could not possibly be more real.
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