We Used To Laugh and Be
We used to have an imagination. We would string thoughts of great expansion from one moment to the next. Weaving webs of adventure to be hung between each day. Picking them at just right the moment, when they are the ripest and our hearts were the purist.
Finding smiles in each step, even in the gloom of winters hold. Even the rain was welcoming in the design of thought. Never did we doubt our hearts, if pirates were the thought of the day so be it. Or an adventure to seek out the deadliest enemy and vanquish him, we did it.
We once lived, acted upon our thoughts to the fullest. Conquering lands beyond our eyes and creating with our hands. Whether our designs worked or not, we moved on, like beasts through a tundra. Seeking the next place to create.
We were once outstretched with branches of hope, of thought, and laughter. Branching out to the highest clouds, breaking through from the densest soils that earth can bear. Never letting anything slow us from our joy. Even in the foolish acts that pressed us to terrible consequence, we sprung from pain like the sun from a storm.
Shining, breathing, brightening up our hearts with a simple hug. Forgiving ourselves and learning.
But now, we are conscious of our hearts. Of others and the world that compounds around us like bricks of a home. Slowly planting ourselves to a single thought, a single design, leaving behind our love, our hearts, our imagination.
Fearing what others will think if we bravely step outside our now bricked hearts of foolish pride. We now cling to the desperation of the next day without any action to bring it hope. Yet we think tomorrow shall be better. But we bring no new thoughts, no new design, and we weep upon days end.
Blank, cast from our own hearts, we have become weak. A meager existence of what we once were and can be still. We have buried the great gift of living in the moment of our conscious spark. Seeing that judgement lies on each corner like thieves to take from the feeble.
If only, we would open to our desires and bleed them to the world. Give air to their lungs and allow our smiles to return. To see that life is only so burdensome when we hide ourselves. When we take our dreams, our actions of creation, and hand them to the mundane. To thoughts of others and the whim of the ego.
We grow to be separate from ourselves, as anything does in growth. But we have separated too much, we distance ourselves as do the shades of white and black. But if we are ever to laugh once again, we must learn to give ourselves the chance, to string our imagination and create.
Have you let the world bury your heart?
Take a leap into, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words.
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