If you looked in the mirror and were to see the you made of all the faults and mistakes and things you were not proud of, you could’ve been terrified indeed, horrified and full of terror. And then you could’ve closed your eyes and opened them once more to see that demon in the mirror. And this could’ve been repeated again and again until you would learn to have lived with the creature in the mirror. Because that would’ve been you and would’ve stayed that way for as long as that had been you.
And then you could’ve looked elsewhere and seen your reflection in something other than a mirror, perhaps a picture, perhaps in a lake. And then you could’ve seen the real you? Something other than what you thought you were. The pure you. And you could’ve seen a man’s face. A human being’s visage. And you could’ve looked into the eyes of that being and you could’ve possibly seen only a face. You could’ve seen life reflected. And that would’ve been you. That could’ve been you as long as it had been the true you.
And then the series of feelings and emotions experienced at any given moment throughout life would’ve been but a mere flow, blowing always. And you would’ve felt the desire to be every single of those moments. And you would’ve and could’ve and should’ve lived. You were every single moment and yet you couldn’t have lived the way you should’ve? Wow the joy of life, of living, isn’t it just impeccable? Isn’t it the most fulfilling thing you could ever possibly ask for? Have you wished for it ever? and how can you have not?
And just the billion possibilities that are should’ves and could’ves inside your head, are out there happening. In other worlds possibly, but nevertheless ARE happening. And we shall live for otherwise we’re just dying every single moment of our lives. We are decaying as time goes by. We are becoming something monstrous otherwise. We are becoming death. Oh what filth!
A beauty somewhere out there exists. A warm place yet remains outside, unexplored. Isolated and remote. Yet to be found. I just know it’s out there. It’s no utopia, it’s no republic it’s no godforsaken heaven and not even an island for that matter. It’s just a mere possibility. A solid probability. It’s just out there in the breeze. It’s somewhere where spring lives; where the sun shines. It’s in the breeze-brought drizzle among all the wet grass. It’s out there… how I long for it. How all my being yearns for it. How I want to scream for its existence and how I want to cry with all my cells for the distance which yet exists. The lack. Oh the lack!
And I shall be there soon, for my soul cannot take it for even a sheer second more, of this forbidden nightmare. This forsaken recurring filth. If death were to be dead, could we have then lived? Should we have died to have been able to live once more? Could we have had the possibility to have been alive if only for a mere second?
I wonder what It must’ve been like, having been able to live out there in the open…