Sitting in a room empty of breath. I feelnothing but cold. A light, that of my friend, or friend I call her just forconvenience, for the definition of a friend is too ambiguous, sits at my side.Shadowing my damp air. A computer at hand, I seek to plot down the complicationsof my mind. Almost hoping a soul could stumble upon this wearied document. I frequentlyfind myself at loss for words. I seek to chat, but none sooths me. I need thetender caress of the wind, the sweet nourish of a noble soul. Writing is the same.I pour out to no one. It’s not about who listens. It’s that none sooths my heart.I need love. The tender caress of wind. I need time. The howling brushing ofleaves. I need love, the embrace of a soul. Is this the biological reaction ofa teenage love-seeker. Or is this the deepest questioning of a philosopher of athousand years, a philosopher that’s seen the wind blow, the mountains weather,the rivers fill and dry, the land shatter. Who am I to ask. Who am I to desire.Have my parents fed me too well, to worry. No. I don’t see this is bad. It’s useless,but what is not? If we live for a thousand time, we live for a thousand time.Find no purpose, because purpose is in purpose and as purpose be. Happiness, wecall purpose. But none happiness was the same for those who lived. We define,we feel, we regret, we desire, we die, we lose, we satisfy. We live. Save the moment,I’ve lived mine just now, it’s enough.
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