Yesterday I went for a walk, with the trees at my back I felt the wind on my face-- it froze my ears, and ran down my spine--I walked through the streets, "walked past the kids when the bars let out", and kept walking. Thought to myself--how lovely this is, to be out here blowing smoke, and changing thoughts.

I wonder--
A simple man gets to be the one who lives his life and no one else's, right? I mean, heavy is the burden of carrying the weight of what is was, what it is and what it'll be. No man can carry all three, and live a simple life of course. It like that song says " I drink beer to improve my mind"--to let go of one of those three that have me here, dragging my feet.
Confusing is indecision and clear is uncertainty. Why? You may ask. Well, one comes by fear and the other by bravery. One is the result of wanting to be safe in the pursuit of what you want and the other the consequence of following your heart, through every path.
But hey, is even hard to judge which one would I take, had I been willing to make them a choice.
Fast to mature or slow to die, how can they expect us to make that choice as early as they do? I do know now, how happy I can be, by doing what I want rather than what gets fans.
But yet again, something as simply as the solitude of the pursuit, can outweigh the bravery of the dishonest heart.

Rain started splashing, I put my face to the sky and breath in. The drops hurt my eyes, but I refused to shut them. I fell back into the grass--Damn, it's been a long walk--I counted the stars the clouds weren't covering, I moved through constellations, wondering who thought of them first--Man, perhaps, while they were in all their right to possess what their eyes saw--an open field stares at me as I try to sit up, the horizon stretches, but only to where the moon lets him--not even the sky can escape the reign of her.

I think--
Long distances are just a fixation of our imagination. Just like the plans we set for how things ought to work out. Confusing ideas of how things will play out, that fill our lips and feet with indecision when the chance comes in a different attire that we thought it would. The roads are treacherous and the distances have moods, some will go short when they seemed long and others will never end even though a shortcut was all they were. Ownership doesn't exist, specially for man, as everything that is worth having will be worth sharing, not with anyone but with the one.

Patient man is the one that gets to live a life, when others will just exist.

Patient man is the one who gets to die when his body gives out, and not a second earlier.

Patient man is the one who woke up again, because the first slap wasn't enough.