t.M

I obsess.
I obsess.
Oh how I do.
The obsession is as highly strung as your world renowned hypnotics.
I am at a loss of not only words & breath, but will to live, when I check in with reality to be reminded that the likelihood of a moment in time spent together, is as likely as the rose head is to survive much longer than a week or so of bloom, once removed from its original place of birth.
But there is hope, of course, and faith.
In oneself, and ones success, and thoughts and beliefs and dreams.
Real dreams, those that come true.
For in states of the unconscious, fantasy flooded depths of euphoric thoughts, derived from the process of sleep, you and I elope on a regular basis.
But whom, I ask you, ever said that a dream of any caliber shall not come true.
Only those with utmost skepticism and disbelief in the extraordinary will preach such sour wisdom. And for them, it is only due to the fact that they have not fought for that which they dreamt.
It was nothing but a succession of vivid visions, preposterous in composure, inspiration lost on its way to the minds of those that wish upon stars, those that love another with their heart and mind, not only their eyes.
Romanticism is creative genius personified.