It’s Very Hard To Be Soft

I don’t want my words to be taken as anything other than a story. But I can’t help it if these ones happen to be a list of realities, and truths that have devoured me entirely.

I love her: I admit what I’ve been lying to myself about on and off for months.
I confess it was far too easy to be more than fond of this kaleidoscopic sunrise against the grey-scale I’d begun to see the world in. I had will left; I still had things I could break open and use the insides of for pigments, but to say any of it could put color back into my eyes like this was far beyond my capable imagination. We collided, and in the aftermath of the crash I couldn’t help but see everything in a mix of vivids. When colors start growing in all the corners, and climbing up the shelves reaching for the sky, it’s mad to believe in anything not changed by the contact.

In this life we all start a degree of blank, with a few spurts of color to ensure curiosity for at least some slice of a wider world. Many of us hold our color, some see their’s run, while others take on the hues of those they touch. There are, however, those who can’t help by their own existence to concentrate, and expand colors; To experiment, and even begin to paint the things around them to be a bit more captivating. Maybe that’s all I’ll say on that. I already see things I’ll never view the same; And I know I like it that way.

How do you do it? How do you stay afloat? It’s something you just learn to do as you relax. Take it as it comes, and really forget what worrying is. Just do what you do, and eventually you’ll realize the entire time you’ve been living.

It pains me when there is nothing I can do. Seeing her welled up, when she should be light and free to dance, I like when she dances even just a step or two; She lights up, and I am taken like the crowd by prima ballerina! Yes it pains me to hear her speak of such sad things in which no mortal has power over, only power to be at peace. It’s existential, but the discomfort and discord is as real as the blood on the hands of diamond dealers. I may not cure the sick, nor give any guidance to the lost. I can only hold a flame to joy, and hope that I have not tarnished its glimmer.

What man was I before I set off to shape my spark like a craftsman style bungalow with beautiful deck and flanking trees, wrapped by troves and of course a grove of citrus and sweet fruits alike; Amidst bursting garden, from which creativity would pluck the freshest herbs and vegetables ever smelt or tasted.

What man was I before discovering that if there is one thing a woman can not stand, it is to see a man lay idle while she does not, which moved me for the beauty of seeing her ease while she labored in her tasks – Now of course I could still stand to move more – but I am more than I was before

What man was I before when I would not slow to notice the day, like a pause for the sun, or the beauty, a cat that wanted to play – Certainly not nearly one as patient as today

What man was I? The question I answer, one more lost than I have determined, Yes I have grown in many ways.

I have lived moments that have changed me forever. Five-ever it seems, I’ll be able to tell you what I since have thought of different and changed for the best.

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