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Surrealism
Surrealism
A small, tan coloured book, completely unadorned. The binding is worn and aged, the pages slightly tattered and curling towards the edges. Several small notes peek out here and there from between the sheaves of parchment and pieces of torn blue silk mark places within.
Tuesday, 09 September 2014
If you could have anything at all, what would it be? Love? Happiness? Peace? An infinite supply of candyballs on demand? Who knows, I am apt to think those answers differ for me each turn. If I were forced to choose though it I think it would be hope, I'd wish for hope. The others seem a little unattainable, well perhaps not the candyballs.

Peace is something so distant, requiring so many different variables to be present in order for it to be truly lasting. Peace within myself, though I have searched myself immeasurable times, is not something I can ever seem to earn. There are parts of me that no matter how I try to accept them, I cannot incorporate into a whole. Some people have it, some people find it in others. I cannot see it anywhere. But I hope.

Happiness. I grasp at it like each single moment is my last fleeting shot at survival, and should I not catch it, nurture it, all is lost. Happiness is only ever in the moments though and with the passing of each one comes the barren wasteland in which we strive for another. Another that will outlast the moments before. But I hope.

And love, ahh love. It has scoured my soul of all sureness. It has raked talons though my mind and left it sundered and faithless. Maimed and broken into splinters of what was and what could have been. It has seeped inside me slowly, intently, and it has burned through me and my better judgement in a flash so intense that I was blinded. It has obliterated my capacity for trust. But I hope.

Hope is my wish, for if I have it all else seems possible, imaginable.

And pirates, I wish for those also.
Celestia posted @ 18:08 - Link - comments
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