SpeakDo you ever wonder why people talk so much? We talk even when no one is listening, when people are just sitting there acting as if they are comprehending everything you are saying, but in actuality they are completely caught up in their own minds. Why do we continue to speak?Speak by ~sxe-pronoun
Do we do it to fill space? Because talking makes time pass more quickly? More painlessly? Why are we so interested in moving time along at such an unnatural pace? Why don't we enjoy the sound of silence? Why don't we enjoy stretching time as far as it will expand? Why don't we savour the few moments we have in life? Because, in the end, that's all that life is, a few moments. And those few moments define us completely.
I guess you could say that life is useless in a way. Well, maybe not useless, but very redundant. Why is it that we endure and withstand so much suffering and utter boredom just so that we can experience savour those few absolutely delicious and juicy moments in our lives, the moments that define ou
CloudsDo you ever wonder what clouds are made of? I do.Clouds by ~sxe-pronoun
I bet they're made of candy,Candy that has been stirred and spun and stuck up in the sky for all of us to enjoy. Or maybe they're made of our very own breath. You know when it gets terribly cold outside"? You know how when you breathe sometimes this sort of transparent stuff comes out of your mouth, just as if you were smoking, but just different? I bet that's what clouds are made of.
I bet that the sky god collects all our breath from the winter season and keeps it in a giant jar witha giant label with giant printing spelling out "cloud matter", and each day he lets just a little bit our so we can see the wondrous result of our winter breathing.
But what about those days when there's not a cloud in the sky? What about then? I bet he's jealous of the summer heat. When it gets too warm for him to bear, I bet he decides that he's going to hof all the cloud matter to himself for that day.
I wonder how cold cloud matter is. Don't you? I bet
The Blueberry PatchI grew up in a house with a musician, a painter, a psychic and a linebacker. I was a quiet kid. I didn't talk much, I didn't do much, I just thought a lot.The Blueberry Patch by ~sxe-pronoun
I'd grab my best friend and we would run frantically across the yellowing grass and down the plunging hills. We'd cross the drawbridge and make our way into the forest, our tiny sandals crushing the first of autumn leaves.
We would walk until we found our blueberry patch. There was a tiny stream running alongside it, and the bushes grew in a sort of horseshoe shape. We spent most of our summer days there, talking about things that only mattered to six-year-olds and eating the sweet blueberries nature had given us.
Nobody else knew about our blueberry patch. It was hidden in the depths of the forest, protected by the creatures we had appointed to do so: Bobcats, lions, and sabre-tooth tigers.
Every morning we would meet each other at the top of the biggest hill in town and map out the plans for the day, which always included a journe