station 35

1 month away from 35 and my papyrus skin peels slightly, 

at the curves. 

more than ever before, 

it is so apparent to me that we dwell but only in our minds, 

and there only. 

the heart is but an extension, a skittish one; it lives for carnal desires, petty distractions.

the heart can get weak

but the mind must stay strong

and pick the right words

to support the baby heart

so the story can go on.

what does it really all come down to then? 

do we hold on tighter or let go and be lighter? 

do we dare to grow and wear audacity on our sleeves? 

or shudder in large groups, muttering robotic 'bless yous' when you hear someone sneeze? 

the universe is pleasantly indifferent to our 

so called suffering, our maddening loneliness, our solitary strife. 

so yes,

hello life,

you got me,

i feel a whole lot fucking wiser.