Stains in consciousness live, are immortal, they survive centuries and travel through genes. Such are my stains too, that will survive my mortality. It does not matter where the die is cast or the colors are spilt, stains travel mysteriously to my consciousness.
Your consciousness merges into all as in some love story that waits to return to its own home that is mine. When it returns, it comes back with stains of love, with that of hate, with anxious breaths, with people and their guns, their personal hopes and conflicts, their joys and their laughter.
The stream is endless and so are the hues. As a child I called these dreams, I still think consciousness flows too in dreams. I am sure you see it too, you see me too, but you see me as you.
This is how we connect through centuries, this is how we remain immortal, our stains thus never die.
Your consciousness merges into all as in some love story that waits to return to its own home that is mine. When it returns, it comes back with stains of love, with that of hate, with anxious breaths, with people and their guns, their personal hopes and conflicts, their joys and their laughter.
The stream is endless and so are the hues. As a child I called these dreams, I still think consciousness flows too in dreams. I am sure you see it too, you see me too, but you see me as you.
This is how we connect through centuries, this is how we remain immortal, our stains thus never die.
No comments:
Post a Comment