There's this thing that moves and drives us as we sleep, as we wake, as we breathe, as we toss, turn, shake, eat, twist, turn again. Sometimes spoken, sometimes ignored.
There is a belief wherein all that we are are tiny specks in a universe of grandeur, insignificant and powerless. Though there is agreement there from these eyes, there is always more to it.
Our worlds and our universes are defined by ourselves. One's universe is separate from another's. The choices we make to define our world is what makes us alive, and nothing, no-one, at any time, nor any place can take that away. Only the one holding their own universe can break it... Just as easily as they can polish it.
Though pain will rack us time and time again, 'tis the same pain that guides us through this muck.
All it takes is the will and the strength to make it so. And I understand its difficult beyond belief. I've been there: traveling from floor to floor finding and searching for the one thing that brings the eternal smile. Wandering from place to place asking questions. Questions with answers that lay eternally ahead of me despite where I went or who I asked.
And it took a while to realize that the answer was never in front or behind or around. T'was always within. The same answers were the ones originating the questions, in their own sick way.
Of course, there is always the search for a similar soul to share that universe with. To fill some void that rests within, to hold hands with as the hollow inside is filled, to share that last sweet goodness resting in the box.
And when they leave, for whatever reason: fading scrolls, flickering flames, fallen stars, tragically enlightening... The void suddenly becomes visible again, inflated to bursting. Rocking whatever world kept in the pocket to the point of shattering.
But it never is the end of the world. Because no matter who they were, the world is still in your pocket. Damaged it may be, its always repairable. But not replaceable. And never the end.
Then we find ourselves on the road, driving to places once visited when two were one, scraping at a memory to clutch on to: a lone shard of what was once full and bright. Slightly exhilarating, slightly damaging, perhaps good, perhaps bad. Where it goes, no-one knows, and its best that way.
There will be the comforting shoulder patting, stick waving vengeance, chemical induced numbness. Make no mistake, for all fall to them. But once again, they're temporary. Merely cartoon tattoos that wash away with soap, nothing more.
Nothing more.
