I miss the ocean, I miss the sea. I miss the sun setting just above it, I miss the smell of the warm rainforest, I miss the river where I found my water; I miss the moss touching my feet and the night where all is human still. I miss all these things, because I miss. I miss the pieces that I have always missed; for is easy to feel the missing when you distract it with old constant loses, for in that missing, there is not much pain in going back and reliving their presence on your mind, their images soothing the lack.
as a tale, of old times sake, when the ordained death comes to take that which owes him a last breath, there is this image here and there of a white light showing some unknown way. Is it telling, I ask myself, that on those tales, the darkness falls weak to this uncertain shine? For there is wisdom in the dark, a space for seeing through our own eyes; whereas the bright, upheld in its greatness can forget, promising goodness as long as we are blinded by the light, that there is shadows to be lived, holes to be rendered and pain to be felt. Where is the hope in the land of hope, where is the future in the land of eternal, where is the past that makes us and how would the soul know what is sacred to what it is not? I rather hear the tellings of humans on our land, those who are keen to say it with both the lightness and the dark, having lived and died numerous times.