It gets quite quiet, at times.
Not the quietness which one wants.
The quietness that comes without a choice.
What happens when one gets what they choose?
Then they do the same, taking breaks at their own will.
But will the Will listen?
Listen.
Look, i understand speaking might hurt.
Thinking happens even when you think of not thinking.
Writing might hurt; typing might too.
Painting might need Colours.
Colours.
But, BEING won't.
You just have to exist.
And not just a picture in my mind.
Which is not even sure what is real and what's not.
But it turns out, that its slowly making me wonder.
How wonderfully were You imagined in my mind.
Mind.
That the time became the brushstroke, and the pixels.
And if they wanted to turn a bit more subtle.
Metaphors.
The strangest part is, that every word, painting,
and the answer:-: to the question of something existing,
Becomes real.
With just a Touch.
Touch.
