A collection

It is more than just 'real'. It is nothing but what you imagine it to be.
It is your form of motivation; your picture of wanting, on the wall in your living room.
It is your defeat, as you read and wonder whether or not you have thought of it yourself; your reflection mirrors you as you do of them: being yourself, wanting more than what you have.
For whoever you are: this can be part of you, all of you.
It is a part of me.
It's a collection.

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We are all people of life, of decisions. We are all the ones of dust, of stone. We are both close and alone, our beliefs, all relevant. Some shape of form; for you, all for you. There is nothing but you; but us. We are all connected with one another. With the hands we hold with, through the words we speak; through the lives we live.
 And so if you weren’t to believe, would you still disregard me if for a belief that we all live on?

I am yours and you are mine; companions and enemies, lovers and family. All of whom we know, and you, are woven together. We are what bind the world. We, I, bind you while you bind me. We are all.

Where there are birds, and there are mountains: where the stairs are all endless spirals; where the windows are light bringer; and the future happenings is us from the past, the present, now; and with you I do not feel alone in such a world. Comfort me, I am yours.

We are sad, and I need you. You are so beautiful. We are beautiful. Open your eyes.

I can see. I see it now.

“I see.”

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