contemplating life, but mostly just wishing

it’s as if the whole word is revolving around you – the branches swaying from side to side, caressed by the sweeping wind brushing its gentle sway over the life among it and the outline of the moon high up in the still pastel blue sky as the sun in the west waves its final goodbyes – and you – you – are still sitting there, letting the rhythm of a crooning voice rock you into the mood of wishes and dreams, as your pinkie continues rubbing over leaden words across once-blank pages, creating smears among the barely-legible words of hopes and regrets.

but it’s this very time and second that you feel the most in-tune with the life around you; like  a painter painting the landscape before him, you write down the words the trees, flowers, sunset, wind, and sky have to say but can’t. 

and it physically and emotionally hurts to not hear their voices out loud, and instead feel them influencing your thoughts through its whistles and gentle sways – the countless voices in this world that hum and buzz and sew together the fabric of the intricate life but are smothered by billowing smoke and crushing feet and pure ignorance – making you realize that there is life – hurting souls and beating hearts – that exists out of your own solitary bubble.

that once special feeling – being the only person in the world – fades away into the bitter dregs, knowing that you are nothing but a speck of dust into the giant fossil of life and that your opinions won’t matter a hundred years – minutes even – from now, unless you cement your signature in the history book, but you know that your hand is too weak, despite the optimistic cheers from the stagnant sidelines.

because, ultimately, take the cheerleaders away and the buzzing bees and flitting butterflies, and you will find yourself standing in a world that could care less about you, despite what you like to pretend, and you are, and will forever be, part of an ink-stained page with smears across your name, making it barely legible.

but, sitting here, with the notebook pages laid open for your wistful thoughts to be obediently recorded, you feel like you are the treasure of nature – Mother Nature’s child – and the winds respond to your calls and the flowers bloom to your words, and, for once, you feel as if you are special.

so you sit here, contemplating life but mostly just wishing.

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