The beauty of growth is a mystery in itself, natural and yet a product of faith faith not in the coming but in history, just as the nineth looks to the eighth. For what came before permits the eventuality of the next, a place ahead of where before sits. Not order but growth the context, like the leaves which await the branch and the branch the trunk, an attribution to nature’s omnipotent hunch, no thought to how it would’ve all sunk. For faith lies in between to be and what has been.
It’s nights like these when I feel like an irony living within itself radiating love yet feeling unloved. It’s night like these when I can’t recognize what tomorrow holds or recall what yesterday held. I feel like an insect crawling
I can still remember, some of how it felt. The newness of things. Each day being a sunny day of newness. Exploration of what’s all around you. Exciting! I can still remember the thrill of it all. The thrill fades