A Bit of the Lost Inspiration,

It was a girl who loved the blue of the sky, the deep blue that seemed to disappear the longer you stared into it, the blue that was clearer than clear, that you could see through enough all the way up so that you couldn't see it at all. And then it circled around in the clear layers and reflected in your eyes and your eyes reflected in the blue and the sky and eyes were blue and the reflection was you. Eventually time was lost in the blue, the reflection of it in the eyes, the absorption into the mind, the time was lost.

It was this blue of the sky that was her favourite because its disappearance while she stared reminded her of the beauty and the pointlessness, the sweetness and the bitterness, the dreaming and the restlessness that permeate the air, explode through her unwilling skin, into her unwilling lungs--but a girl cannot suffocate herself--and so she unwillingly allowed those essential yet blasphemous elements of life inside her.

Now we must ask why? Why this allowance of quintessential beauty and quintessential blasphemy? Why love and hate on the creation of vividity, of life; why allow all and nothing in when it intrudes upon you, committs a felony upon a person and the person committs a felony upon himself--yet we allow it. To be courageous we must reek of cowardice, to be cowardly, reek of courage, for to live we must inherently fear death despite all we might say of casting the Unknown from amongst our fears; and to die before the world will take us, to die by our own hands, and in doing so, brave that fear, plunge into the Unknown of our freewill, so I say, yes I say both living and dying are shames and honors upon a man. Both living and dying.

And the deep blue of a clear spring day that echoed eternity and emptiness in the reflections between the sky and our eyes was the girl's favourite. For this was the world in all its renewed glory, the opposite of death, so birth, the opposite of winter in thought but really on the other side of year, the world is dying and is so more alive. WIll it go on this way until the sun grows big, explodes then collapses, then sends this notion of insignificant humanity who spent its time only selfishly dreaming of himself, creating a small cacophony of disruption among the peaceful, empty, singing space of the stars to amuse himself by calling war and blood, then crying peace?

He will end in a culmination of both--violence and serenity--when the world has him destroy himself, or destroys him for him, and then enjoy silence again. The universe will take its breath, for it still has the hope to hold it. Why, then, should we act otherwise? I say: take the example of the unfathomable universe which surrounds this invisible mote of dust on which we reside amongst the stars. I say take the example, for we are only a reflection reflecting and refracting eternity back into itself until there isno eternity at all except what cannot be remembered.