sense is so relative, anyway...
where we begin, and where we will end, the tiny spaces of lost in between, these are why the soul is silent to the world, mostly forever. there are reasons, there are always reasons, and a sense of accomplishment
when one reason seems more than another, but they are only your own reasons, nothing, one in the same
staring, you'll find to be something most do entirely too often, staring despite an appearance of calm
. staring past and around, human life thrives when contact, visual or otherwise, is less direct
. probably, we are all observers, some of us unsure of how to be as such.
it all gets to be a little much for anyone, being thrust into too many lives at once, perhaps this would be less an issue and more a rare and therefore welcomed occurence, if we could only take on our appropriate roles
these words, though, are fallen from a head weary of everything that a passively active individual
must endure. eventually, the role of the observer becomes little more than
. still, a wall flower at heart, i notice the small, insignificant things. they swell and become my world.
i am engulfed in a thought process i scarcely hope to comprehend (there are only so many minutes in an hour, days in a week). i will recall a sentence pulled from an old novel, one read by these eyes before they were as tired as the head they are set neatly into. it will intrigue me briefly, i may or may not forget, but i did notice, took the time to note my noticing
it would seem that it is nearly impossible to combine the two, and so, in the end, living to observe
becomes little more than the seed of perpetual observance. both swirl together, fade into eachother until they are one in the same and are little more than a few moments of this silently fleeting life that have slipped away.