There Is No Boredom
|A Man's Traveled Heart|
There Is No Boredom
This earth is no placed to be fixed, no place to be at a single point. Ah, the wonders that lie ahead. A nomad must a heart be. To truly embrace the eclectic sanctuary that is the ever expanding universe. Spinning us around and around a hundreds of times a year. Creating a connection to something that could boil us an instant if we drew too close. Frightful is this and if caught in a sudden stop, we would fling from the comfort of our grounds and we would burn like the stars.
This danger excites the heart. It pierces the simplicity of boredom when one finds the utmost danger in the utmost simplistic scenarios. And from those minut thoughts of tickling fear of adrenaline, blossoms knew growth for adventure. Seeking the ends of each cliff, only to leap and find yourself soaring among the clouds.
For today, breath could be taken away. A poison could scatter among the air, snuffing out the beauty that is nature. Consummating death to all, cutting burdens of many spoiled hearts of their easy issues. No more would you hear frustration over the forgotten items at the store. No more would the echoes of pity spill into the delicate ears of the soul. No more would tunneled eyes of anger find home among broken hearts.
Silence would lay upon the earth as does a feather upon a bird. Fluttering to the whims of what it cannot control, but being a part of something so bold. But that is not what is, at least not in the present of what is now. For now, I spring my heart to the outlandish, to the unknown. I frolic in the winters for something hidden, something spectacular beneath all the frost.
Finding grace in even the most dead and dull blades of grass. The overwhelming sense of comfort as I can walk back to the confines of my home and feel cold no more. What blessings we have created with such magnificent minds.
The ever-tantalizing voyage of thought never even caresses the end of it all. Incomprehensible is the thought of the end. Even in the sudden death of a loved one, many act still as if time swoons them with lemniscate of life. Leading them to loiter in the agony and bleed their soul to what is gone. Bringing resentment to self, to life. Drawing dark eyes into their now empty home. Preying among the soft whispers that tell them to move on.
So much have we created, and I wish to taste it all. To become fervor in the ideas of the simple, to allow myself to build the most complex thoughts. Designing beyond reality, at least what cannot be reality of today. What sadness finds me when lips form apathy in the daily.
Breeding habits that go no further than what was yesterday. Cold does a soul become of such acts, madness will find the mind. And not the madness that transcends one to the mountains of the heavens. But madness that leads one to become the idle hands of the devil. Lacerating the heart of even a page of hope. Brewing up sores that cause pain even in the waking of the eyes.
This earth is no excuse to be dissatisfied, for many even in the most ill of life's. Find more excitement, than a man upon a golden crown.
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