beach house visuals.

Hello. Be sure to read the instructions below. They will provide you with, well, instructions on how to fully enjoy this blog and use it to it's fullest potential.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

What inspires you, Richard?

A great plenty things. Music, life, tragedy, people. You.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

im obsessed with words

yet i'm not quite [ h u man]. take it as you will, or as you want.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

I don't know why,

but I still love you. You know I love you, but you also know what I mean. I don't know why, but I'm still physically attracted to you. Perhaps it's the loneliness and desperation talking to me - - If so; that's fine, too. I was taught and brought up to never lie to myself. You were one of the main advocates of that - - So, here I am: Still loving you, still physically attracted to you, a cold winter night and a bottle of champagne. How can it be, years later, that I still harbor some minuscule feelings for you? Years later and I'm still here: Smiling and laughing and crying alongside you. One heartbeat after another, just two sets of smiles, And if given time and spoken without rhyming, third time around and we'll stick like glue. Heavily, oh so heavily, I depend on you - - Lovely, oh so lovely, I find you - - Brilliant, oh so brilliant, you find me - - So close, oh so close, yet always so far away - - Never within an arm's length of each other always just so desperate for at least one longing touch I know will never come. Lovely, oh.. so, lovely. oh, so.. lovely.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

In the crawlspace,

Somewhere in the crawlspace that night, your voice died. I can never really forget it, the troubling, descending tone in your voice. Always a different trouble each time, each new call. Yet it's always for the same reason, Yet it never really goes away, does it? Always just there, lingering on the edge of insanity. Borderline vanity.

[horchata-heaux]

Two halves of the same heart

He has been through so much. No one really knows. If anyone tries to guess, they’re usually wrong. He’s fine with that. He doesn’t want a soul to know anyway. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Who knows, only he does.

She’s easier to read. Well, for him it is. She smiles often and looks amazing. Or so she tells herself that. She’s full of problems she admits some. Some are locked away, far into her memory where they should stay. She feels that things could happen if she admits her problems.

“What if they tell others?”

“I won’t, people shouldn’t. But they do.”

He doesn’t know how he feels about her. He doesn’t love her, does he? No, it’s too soon. He finds her amazing. Her big eyes, dark brown hue. Her smile, illuminating. He finds her perfect. It amazes him how she has so many problems and not a clue on how to solve them. He’s there for her and he wants to be there even if they can’t be together.

She’s fallen in love once in her life. It’s enough, she says. But, she knows she’s falling for him. Maybe too quickly. She doesn’t mind. She loves how she feels. She’s happy. He says he’s happy too. It’s enough for her. He isn’t all that attractive in his face. She sees beyond it. His smile is bright, his laughter enchants her. The way he stares into her eyes.

“No one can take this away from us.”

“Only we can. But we won’t. We’ll give it our all.”

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

In you. Can I be the lucky guy that discovers you?

Sure, but it'll be hard to when I don't know your name - or your face.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

Allow me to discover you, Richard.

Then discover me.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

Comma,

Try and try, though both have lost the starlight, neither give in, to the depression, nor the anxiety, Embracing with platonic arms, wishing with hopeful dreams, loving with special words, comma, comes directly from, the greek phrase Komma, "something cut off OR a short clause," once more, embracing with platonic arms, crying tears of, joyfulness, happiness, wistfulness.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

she, without fangs.

'Cross the dead train-yard, she reminisces on the past. How, she would bite without intent To harm; only to stay the hand that fed her. Now, she wanders without a purpose in her mind; though she means to leave these thoughts behind. "Foul play!" she cries out to the darkness which became; what she tread upon.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

Artist Vs. Poet

{- Author's Note: This is an unfinished piece of mine. You get the point, if you read it. But once the battle begun, I couldn't think of anything more to add. So it is without further ado, I present you Artist Vs. Poet. Enjoy. - It was a night of fiction. A storm raged, and the wind swirled visibly amongst the stars. The scene where this particular work of fiction (or is it reality?) was set: an open field, lush and filled with rolling green hills. A large hill stood in the middle of the field, seemingly endless in its each. There was a brief lull in the storm, where the wind and the rain and the lightning and the thunder stood still. It was here that, for what seemed like eternity, lightning once again flashed and the bright surrounded the dark. Another hill could be seen in the distance, and the silhouette of a man stood out amongst the pure white. He held in his hand what looked to be a pencil, and in front of him rested an easel. Silently, he began to scribble on the easel, sketch paper filling quickly up with extraordinarily detailed piece of a man sitting at a desk, furiously writing on a scrap of paper underneath candlelight. The details were immense, the intense flame of the man's eyes, the creases in his face; presumably from worry. The folds on his shirt. It was incredibly lifelike. A few moments later, the Artist took a single step back and admired his work. He reached over with the eraser, taking away a few smudges, spreading some of the graphite around on the piece, making the walls look busy, more artist like, more lonely and melancholic. It fit his mood, his life, his theme. When the Artist looked off in the distance, the man's scribbles suddenly changed, they became more erratic. When he looked back, he took no notice, and instead smiled in pleasant surprise at his work. But it was the voice that chilled him to the bone, froze him in his place. "O', how thou art lonely with a device to create yet you cannot defeat the sadness which plagues. . . thee." The wind howled, and the brightness dissipated slowly, crumbling back away into darkness. Standing on the opposite hill was a man of elegance, a man of worry, and of extreme passion. This was the man he had scribbled on sketch paper, the Poet. Had his creation come to life. . or was this man somehow the driving force behind his recent work? The Artist stumbled back lightly, looking downwards, making sure he wouldn't fall off the hill. When he looked back, the Poet was standing on the ground between the two hills. "Creator, how can you see? With creativity as your blindness and depression as your seeing-eye hound. Ha, you aid only your ambition, with no voice to be heard." The Poet's voice was deep, and guttural. To the Artist, it sounded like a million thick strings being pulled apart and subsequently snapping one by one. If he was religious, he would have believed the Poet to be Satan. To others (if there were any others left), he would have sounded normal. The Artist threw his hands out, parting his lips, yelling.. but in his mind. Words failed to come out like he intended to, and his thin, bony hands shot up and scratched at his face as if that action would bring a voice back into his being. But then.. slowly, he realized, that his drawing had come to life, maybe if he could draw himself speaking.. and then the Poet chuckled. "Voice regained, lost without reason brought upon, by dignity, respect the Artist speaks once more." The Artist dropped the pencil, and it landed in the soft grass, surrounded by mud, lost by the will of Mother Earth. A deep croak escaped from his throat, and a scream echoed throughout the night. It was a primal scream, one of unbridled rage. The Artist's brown irides seemed to glow with intense flames, akin to the flames of the Poet's eyes. He grabbed a thick tuft of his blackened hair and began to rip it out, strand by strand. The haggardness of the Poet's face had now become the Artist's worry and his face began to sag. The Poet, satisfied with this sudden display of intensity and force, smiled, and traversed up the hill. The Artist, scared now, began to rake through the grass, searching for the pencil, his only means of defense. He found it, and instantly brought it up to the easel, ready to sketch something that could protect him. But the Poet had already reached the top, and was already beginning to recite something else that could harm the Artist. Without thinking, he lunged at the Poet, aiming to tackle him and bring him down the side of the hill; but the Poet exploded into a million eraser shavings, then appeared back on the opposite hill. Regaining his balance at the last moment, the Artist stared in awe. "What is this devilry? A moment ago, you were standing here, and now, you are there! You alone are a product of witchcraft - or worse, trickery of the mind. And you move as you please. Who, or what are you, knave?" The Artist, speaking now to his creation for the first time, spoke quickly and in an elevated language; though the need for it was almost nonexistent. "Nothing, and yet everything I am. Something, can you Understand me now? Or, are you Just like the Rest, cold and distant?" The Artist's mind became muddled, and his view of the world became skewed. He was unsure of himself, suddenly, unsure of the world around him. It began to collapse, piece by piece, like a puzzle during a tremor. He began to convulse, laughing, crying, shaking, yelling. Through his blurred and skewed vision, he saw his piece, the Poet, and it enraged him. He tore the paper down, crumbling it, swallowing it. In the distance, he heard a laugh, a satisfied laugh, then that too faded away. Sooner still, his vision returned to normal. The world was still as he left it, yet it too was frozen in time. Had the expulsion of the drawing returned his vision, casting away the creation? "A man of few words; are you not? Though you have voice, you use it without reason. Conflict will rise and one shall fall. Or perhaps the two. " Once more, the Poet's words proved riddling, and invaluable. Were they riddles? Clues to end this monstrosity's life? Or were they simply words? Words could do little harm. But.. when used right, they could inspire others, couldn't they? "What manner of creation are you!? As far as the eye can see, neither devil, nor man, nor beast. I intended for you to be Man personified, and yet, here you are, standing against time, humored! Yet, here you are, able to move from one place to another with no visible means! Yet, here you are, mocking your own Creator! What manner of creation are you, or are you not!? Am I simply delirious? Can this be a result of me being left to my own machinations? Am I not laying now in some hospital at the mercy of doctors? Am I not truly here, talking and rambling madly!?" With each succeeding question, the Poet grew more and more amused, laughing in delirium it seemed. "Why do you laugh!?" "Draw, dear Creator. Create, and live. Or, shall I Create? Life and Death, eternal." As if his words were a cue, the world started up again and the ground began to shake. Lightning crackled, thunder boomed and the ground split. A deep moaning surfaced from beneath the ground and a gigantic hand grasped the crack and pushed it further apart. Six, glowing red eyes peeked over the crack; focusing on the Artist. The moaning grew louder as the beast surfaced, fifty feet of hulking, rotting flesh. Flies buzzed about, picking at the decaying meat, hoping for a better meal. There was no mouth on this beast, yet it had to scream, perhaps through tensing its muscles then relaxing them, producing a loud - and deep - vibration. The Artist, upon seeing this monstrosity, screamed, and turned towards the easel with the blank and empty sketch paper. Without hesitation, he began to sketch the beast, and at an abnormal speed. The beast began to lumber towards him, the ground cracking, its footsteps leaving miles wide craters behind. And silently, effortlessly, maliciously, The Poet laughed.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

1000 faces

Inspired by, 10,000 places. Leaving behind, 100,000 spaces. Running at, 1,000,000 different paces. Each one playing, with 10,000,000 similar aces. Simultaneously tripping over, 100,000,000 people's laces. Gathering together in 1,000,000,000 loving embraces.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

Beginnings ; Excerpt Uno.

{ - Just.. something I've been working on for about six years now. It's had so many revisions it's not funny. Feel free to let me know what you think.

The man in crimson had been here before, many times in fact. The cliff of a mountain, stretching high into the clouds, resembling an outstretched finger – pointing at the Sun of Tides. A cool breeze blew, rustling leaves and stray feathers from creatures unknown off the cliff, sending them floating idly down to the ground. Far down below rested a small, rural village known as the Fool's Hideout – aptly named for the idiocy of many of the villagers. The true name had been long since effaced by time and memory, thus the citizens dealt with the criticism they received. Steely white eyes looked down on the settlement, a smirk growing on the thin chapped lips of the man in crimson. “How long are ye gunna stand there stranga'?” a gruff voice called from behind the crimson warrior, the voice of a dwarf no doubt. Turning around, the man in crimson's steely-white eyes met with the dull-brown of the dwarf's own. “There a time limit or summin'?” carrying with the man's voice was a thick mountain accent, one that was imitated to a tee, one that was not his own. “Yu 'ave been standin' there fer quite a whyle, a few hours mor' or less.” the four foot high dwarf huffed silently to himself, crossing his hairy arms and beginning to tap his left foot impatiently. “Like I said, there a time limit to how long a person can stand 'ere? Far as I know, I culd stand 'ere all day and none would give a diddly damn.” “True 'nuff stranga'. Can I ask why yur ovahlookin' the Fool's 'ideou'?” the dwarf's left hand moved upwards to scratch the scruffy beard, the sound of feet moving against sand was the only sound close enough to describe it. “Eh. I came 'cross this cliff a few centur-- er..years ago, that village wasn't there then.” “How long we talkin' 'bout 'ere, five, ten years?” “More or less, somewhere between that region. I was wonderin' how long it took for these folks to settle down 'ere.” he calmly replied, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, a massive blade that rested on his back. His eyes dulled, becoming grim, narrowing as if he saw something strange. “Now now, no need tah fight meh for disturbin' ya. Yu can rest easy ya know.” the dwarf spoke, a slight shake in his voice. Could it be. .that this is Him? He thought, a troubled look coming across his wrinkled face. The man in crimson did not rest easy, in fact, he stepped closer to the dwarf who promptly took a step back in return. “I didn't do notin' wrong ya hear?” he shouted, raising his right hand in an offer of peace; a dwarf custom. “Down!” the man in crimson shouted, drawing the blade effortlessly and hurling it behind the dwarf. An ear-piercing screech echoed throughout the cliff side, followed by a flutter of wings. The dwarf ducked, looking up in awe at the man, he moved so smoothly. In what seemed like an instant, the man stepped on the dwarf's shoulders and launched himself in the air, sending a kick straight into the chest of a winged beast. The beast shrieked and fell to the ground, supporting itself on one crumpled wing. The man fell with the beast, hand open, a wild and dangerous smile came upon those lips as the fingers clutched around the beast's throat and promptly ripped it's head off. A massive stream of blood shot out from the open neck, some spraying upwards onto the man's face. His blade rested in a tree, blade shining with an odd violet aura. He tossed the head off of the cliff, rising his hand in the air and gripped the sword's hilt as it came flying back at him. Turning back towards the awestruck dwarf, he offered a hand and a smile. “Norhs. Vicious winged beasts that like to populate high mountaintops. Are you alright?” His accent's gone. Tha' settles it then, it is Him. Shaking his head, the dwarf grunted, smacking away the man's hand; though he did it with a smile on his face. “Yeh, I'm fine.” He stood up, brushing off the dirt from his attire. “I've heard stories of yah, so I have. The Man in Crimson, seekin' nuttin' else but the Realm of the Gods. Nev' thought I'd meet ye.” The man's smile faded as the dwarf acknowledged who he truly was. He looked off in the distance, a troubled look rising on aged skin. The wind blew, carrying with it the howl of more beasts, hungry for blood. The man's coat, which had many tears and holes, swayed from side to side gently, almost as if reluctant to. He sheathed the blade, stuck his thumbs in his belt-loops, and began to rock back and forth slowly. “That's me.” The dwarf looked as troubled as the man did, but for a much more different reason. Apparently, he had upset the man, an unwise choice in such an age. “Look, if I've offended ye in any wey, I 'polgize. It's jus' tha. .” he looked off at his hand, a single scar running down the middle. “It's jus' tha' yer well known 'round these parts, yu've done so much!” The wind blew again, the howls of many beasts closer now. Clouds began to hover overhead, dark as night, an omen of misfortune for the Fool's Hideout. Rain would come and wash away the smell of human flesh, preventing the beasts from coming into the forests to be hunted down for feasts. Not only that, but it prevented the crops from growing pure – instead they would grow wild, too sour and bitter for the villagers to harvest. Thunder boomed in the distance, followed by brief flashes of lightning. The man walked over to the edge of the cliff once more, looking at the Sun of Tides being replaced by the clouds. His lips were pressed together in a tight line, bordering on the edge of a smirk. For a split second, he opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it. He came here for a reason, not just to look over the Fool's Hideout, but for rather more important reasons of his own. “Yer name. .it's Jejija, isn't it? The Sorrow. .?” the dwarf spoke, his thick brown hair being blown in all directions due to the heavy wind. “Yes.” Jejija said, a soft and yet firm voice that was much more different than the mountainous accent he had used only a few moments before. “That's my name. But do you know what it means in Ancient Alfarian?” Ancient. .Alfarian? I only knew of Alfarian, heard o' Ancient Alfarian a few times – mostly as a rumor - but tha' language. . .Could he really be that old? He thought silently to himself, looking away from the piercing gaze of the man in crimson. “My full name – Jejija Orien Roshen – means 'Ill-fated Warrior.' My. .father gave me that name.”

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

In the Nothing of A Night

{Please go to my page and read this to get the full effect.

"Hey, John?" Stacie looked over at him, a light smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Her dark green eyes twinkled with a sort of admiration for this man she lay next to, hand in hand, under the stars. His head slowly turned to face her, their noses barely a few centimeters from each other. His brown eyes, though dull and almost expressionless, seemed to reflect the twinkle that had cast from Stacie's. But he didn't return the smile, he was absent this night, but that wasn't a surprise to her. He was always distant, off in that little world of his. It wasn't anything personal, it wasn't that he didn't enjoy her, it was just his "thing". His voice was no different. Distant, off in another world, thinking of landscapes that wouldn't, and shouldn't, ever exist. "Yeah?" She inched closer to him, as best she could, then she turned her head back to look at the stars. "What did you want to be when you grew up?" He continued to look at her left cheek for a second, thought of reaching out and touching it, letting her know that he wasn't distant, that he was there. But then he thought about her question, and, like her, he inched closer. His brown eyes narrowed as he looked back at the stars, thinking. A couple minutes past, and still, he had not come up with anything. Those memories were lost to him. "I don't know." She frowned. "Oh." He chuckled lightly, something that seemed closer than usual. "Yeah. Oh. What about you? Nurse? Pediatrician? Veterinarian?" She smiled, and shook her head, looking back at him. For a brief moment, they made eye contact, and she swore that she saw a twinkle in his eyes, a small glimmer of hope. As brief as it was, it was gone, and she was left wondering if that was just starlight in his eyes that he saw. Maybe it was. "Haha. Very funny." She sighed. "I wanted to be a star." He brushed his long, thick, dark hair out of his face. His wide lips curved upwards in a smile, and the pure whiteness of his teeth shone through. "An actress. Shoulda known." He drew out the last syllable with a slight groan, so it came out as, "knoooownnn." She hit him on the chest softly, laughing as she did so. "No. A star." She pointed up at the sky, a few more stars blinking against the blackness of the night. "One of them." There was a moment of silence between them, in which they both stared at each other longingly, and, unsurprisingly for the both of them, they shared a kiss. A first kiss for the both of them. He broke the silence. "Do you love me?" The silence came back. ... "I don't know." He gulped, and then spoke. "Oh." She smiled, then kissed him again. This time, it was longer, full of passion, adoration, and dare they say it, love. She rolled on top of him, and placed his hands on her chest, leaning in close; whispering, "Yeah. Oh. Can you feel my heart?" Blinking, blushing, wondering, no longer distant and only completely there, John nodded. "Yeah." Slowly, she began to unbutton her plaid shirt, and her near-flawless skin was exposed to the stars, to the air, and to John. To the both of them, they could hear their hearts beating in their heads. "I don't know, but. . my heart does. What does it say?" She leaned in closer, again. Briefly, he hesitated, then pressed his right ear against her breast, listening closely. He listened for a minute, then drew back, and kissed her again. "She does." She drew his shirt off, and tossed it to the side, placing her hands against his bare chest. "Do I? Or, do you want me to, and that is why you felt my heart?" His hands slid down to her waist. "I want you to," But before she could ask why, before she could speak, he placed his index finger on her lips. "Because my heart said he does." In the nothing of the night, they both smiled, and she lay next to him, tracing her index finger along his chest, smiling in solace. He looked at her and said, "I wanted to be your boyfriend."

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

Peaceful.

His name was Peter Stilles. A good friend of mine. He was a detective, and a damn good one. He always received praise and awards and commendations and was once even considered for the Chief of Police. But for some reason, he never took the awards, never took the position. I guess that's what led him here today, the bottom of the ravine, a satisfied look in his dead eyes. His body was twisted, crumpled, almost unrecognizable and, hell, I wouldn't have recognized him had it not been for the cracked detective badge at his side. Standing lackadaisically against the squad car, I fought back the cries of outrage. Bundled up in a soft, blue, microfiber blanket, staring off into the stars. . I must have been out of it; one of the officers had apparently been calling my name for the past five minutes.

"Ms. Davids? Ms. Davids!"

"Hm? Oh. Yes?"

"Where were you when you saw Detective Stilles fall?"

"Right over.. there." I pointed to my Jeep, parked a few feet away. The officer wrote this down, nodding to himself.

"Alright. And, why were you out here?"

"He.. told me to park at that exact spot." The officer stopped writing, and arched an eyebrow, curiosity abundant in his oddly striking green eyes.

"He told you? How?"

"Yes. And, he called me. He said exactly this: 'Allison. You know the old ravine where we used to have picnics at?' I said, yes, Peter, I remember. 'Well, park next to the tallest tree, tomorrow at eight.' Alright, I said, but why? 'I'm sorry.' And then he hung up." It was hard for me to recite this conversation, even though it was etched into my mind. He sounded so happy and peaceful, so unlike the attitude of a jumper. Even when he apologized, I could tell he was smiling. I was worried, sure, but he always did this. Ever since I was in college, when we met, he always had a way of having a smile in the darkest of times.

"Alrighty. Thank you for your time Ms. Davids. We'll keep in touch."

I don't know why, but when the officer said that they'd keep in touch, I started crying. My mascara ran, and I sounded like a dying elephant. Not that I know what a dying elephant sounds like, but I'd imagine I sound like one. The Chief walked over, and even though I was shorter than him by at least a foot, he looked up to me. I think it might have been because of the heels I was wearing. But he wrapped his arm around my neck, and began to console me, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. I didn't care, I was too upset at the lost of Peter. As he walked me to his car, I stopped crying, and looked once more at Peter's satisfied face. He never looked more peaceful in the twenty years I've known him. Peaceful. I guess maybe because he finally found someone to listen to him, and be there when he fell.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

If there;

If there was a time, I could show you love, it would be in this rhyme. I could show you compassion, If there was a time, My love for you - a loaded gun. If there was a word, I can give you hope, It would fill this gourd. I can give you happiness, If there was a word, And with it, God bless. If there was any other than you, I would be devastated, It would fill the ocean blue. How can these feelings be related, What's a man to do? If there was any other than you, if there was any other.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

On True Love

The main driving force in this world, that which propels all living things towards some form of closure, is love. Love for nature, for architecture, for knowledge, for art, for literature. But perhaps the strongest type of love is the love between to sentient beings and even that has many different forms, not types. Humans, perhaps, are the most conscientious and observant of their feelings. They yearn and yearn for that someone who will fulfill their desires. This, by their definition, is true love. Some say that true love doesn't exist, that it's a myth. However, in both the literal and typical interpretations, true love certainly does exist. To first understand why true love exists, one must look to the literal interpretations of both terms; "true" and "love". True, or truth, is, by definition, real; genuine; authentic. Love is, by definition, a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person or object. Thus, true love would be real, genuine, passionate affection for another person or object. In this 'literal' sense, true love does exist and always will exist, no matter the circumstances. This is purely the cause of the constant need for new technology, new reasons to further continue their existence. Love for architecture spawns new buildings, new services for the common individual. Love for art spawns new creative idea in the common individual and thus spawns the love for architecture in turn. It is all a wheel which will continue to turn so long as sentient beings continue to exist. But one must eventually look past the 'literal' interpretations and see the 'typical' interpretations, the common individual's belief in that one person who will love them and they will love back. The common individual will define true love as unconditional, mutual love between two people. The couple will then get married and live happily ever after. Of course, they will both die together and their spirits shall live on forever, dancing an eternal waltz of love in the boundless ocean of forever. Again, genuine feelings for one another that now transcend time and relative dimensions in space. True love on the typical scale that spawns new individual and thus, turns the wheel which will continue to turn indefinitely. This in turn spawns the love for architecture and the love for art. Yet, with this subtle evidence that indeed shows the existence of true love, some will still say that it is simply not possible. One person to love for all of eternity? A love that will last, quite literally, forever? Quite impossible. These are the "hopeless romantics", their own 'alias' for their sometimes self-caused loneliness. Because of this, they sometimes take up a hobby of some sorts. Poetry, writing, photography etc. But, as previously mentioned, there are different types of love. Taking up a hobby is devoting a good portion of the common individual's time to that one hobby, as in having a relationship with someone who loves that individual unconditionally; the feeling is mutual. In this sense, true love exists in another form, that of an object. The hobby one takes up starts and possibly finishes each and every single event in that particular individual's lifespan. To them, romantic true love does not exist, even when "true love" stares them right in the face. In conclusion, true love exists in many forms, not just the typical romantic. True love simply means, once again, a genuine affection towards a person or an object. It exists not only in the human mind, but also in the animalistic mind. True love is what makes the world spin, what gives the human race the abilities to adapt and survive in this rapidly changing world.

[escapingtheseasons-blog]

Alone with you,

along beaches and oceans and seas and shores hand in hand heart in heart lips in lips dont let go dont leave me dont separate the touch alone with you along the border between heaven and earth sunrise sunset moonrise moonfall thoughts within thoughts hopes within dreams and dreams within thoughts dont forget dont remember dont cry and dont laugh alone with you along the fence along the grass death threats life promises limbo line doubts and despair and tears dont run off dont walk towards dont live alone with you.