To the soul-searchers and the wanderers,
How does one change if they never drop the remains of who they once were? Yet, how does one change if they do drop the remains of who they once were? A set of paradoxical questions I often ask myself. Who am I? I have no answer, I have no idea who I am. I like to figure that I am what I believe to be true.
I believe in love. Not the lustful type filled with evil intentions. The pure kind, filled with donut cream and courage. I believe in the power of spiritual faith, but I also believe in fallen angels. I believe in self-empowerment, in freedom so large it leaves you trembling. I believe in magic. The kind that brings people back to life, grants wishes and makes unicorns appear without their horns. I believe in what Esther said about dying when one must die. I believe that God is good. That he loves us, and that is why he allows us to choose if we want to love him in return. I believe that candy really did taste better when you were still a child; that humanity’s destiny is held in the stars. I believe that life is a game, a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you are still breathing, so you might as well sit back and enjoy it. I believe in the healing power of music, that the sadness you experience watching movies is real, and I believe in the words I bleed onto blue lined paper. I believe that these things recreate me, molding my chameleon soul over and over. I am the moon, kissing the night sky. Wanting everything but waiting for absolutely nothing.
How will you know which parts of yourself have been dropped and which parts were left? How will you know when your colors are finally broken? Scattered across the grave of your fantasies.
