When checklists start to dictate decisions, the romanticism of living this life ceases to matter. Questions, answers. Umms and aahs. All filled onto the timesheet.
The heart craves for meaning. To be appeased with the gift of time. Let it cook. Let it simmer—a maybe, at the end of it.
Trauma of yesteryear, seeped in, ingrained, refuses to move. Stubborn. Is that true? For, I overthink, O’dear.
Free fall is scary. But what’s a life that hangs in a calculated balance moving nowhere. And still, see-sawing through.
Throw away caution to the wind. For it’ll blow away the dirt. Of today and before. Bringing with it, the fragrance of tomorrow.
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