Should I lend you more knowledge,
more facts about neurons and atoms?
No… I’d much rather help you forget,
so that you might once again walk with wind under your feet,
and mirrors in your eyes.


Tell me, is there a story within you? What does it say, about what you ought to be? Do you remember tearing those pages out of a book somewhere? When did they turn to stone, and become so heavy? Well, it’s good fortune then, that you’re unable to carry… anything at all.


Do we really need to prove anything at all? Come home, my dear, there’s no shame in the simple, the wilderness is right here.


With this cage of ribs, With this narrow mind, With these churning thoughts, A sharp sword through a gentle stream—  We pretend to cut the ocean.  We pretend to imprison the heart. 


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