In the End

   It's the illusion that simplicity at its finest is enough to continue the aching throb that pulls up on the strings of tattered fragments. In a lit moment of fight and endurance we suddenly reach the finale only to wonder what it was that we were after in the first place. What the tug and pull of enchanted bliss left us with is an uncertain gratitude of feeling strongly for something. The aureate love of being in love or perhaps having the warmer side of the sheets to lift and spread, throw above our heads. There is a belief that goes along a wire of perception and individual opinion before becoming a fairytale of mythical proportions. The golden thief of billions.
Perhaps it is only the moments of the "now", the pleasure and newness of them that make up these ideas which forgo the inevitable and ever-existing doubt, hatred, suspicion, heart brokenness. It is all relevant when held hand-in-hand with one another. Perhaps we are built to love the chase, the mine, yours, each other's, until we are standing in a white walled room with ours and then it becomes listlessness. Idleness. The grey smudge that we feared and promised to never make ours suddenly appears as a lost hope and more of a take than a give, unless of course, you are the giver. What is it?
Are we simply fighting for individual, inexplicable moments? Tiny bits of the whole until we fit the last piece of the puzzle to find exactly what we were trying to avoid. There is an extent and then there is an expectation. There it is and then there it is as its unattainable self. We can see, hold, become influenced by, follow, track, seek, linger on it, but it cannot be ours because time wills it back into a canister of forgotten things, forgotten moments.