One day baby, we’ll make it to a place without walls. (Taken with picplz.)
I thought we were allowed to keep it all to ourselves. Like a haunted house, where no one goes in but the eyes look out.
Unlocked the lock that kept it dark and read a written warning saying- ‘I’m still mourning over ghosts that broke my heart before I met you’.
Stories are like genies, they can carry us into and though our sorrows. Sometimes they burn, sometimes they dance, sometimes they weep, sometimes they sing. Like genies, everyone has one. Like genies, sometimes we forget that we do.
Our stories can set us free. When we set them free.
You’re one with the burden of intuition.
You’re one with the echoes of conversation.
You’re one with the lesson that was the best one you learned.
Nothing happened. And everything did. Your whole life you can be told something is wrong and so you believe it. Why should you question it? But then slowly seeds are planted inside of you, one by one, by a touch or a look or a day skateboarding in a park, and they start to burst out of old hulls shells and they start to sprout. And pretty soon there are so many of them. They are named Love and Trust and Kindness and Joy and Desire and Wonder and Spirit and Soulmate. They grow into a garden so dense and thick that it starts to invade your brain where the old things you were once told are dying.