Wales

I am becoming accustomed to the blindness of myself. I wonder what it would be like to finally look at myself with eyes. Although my lack of presence is non-existent when I write. I am a stranger to my own rot, but I am kin with the beauty of my own god.

Outer beauty doesn’t mean anything to me, though. When we walk on fields, we crush flowers with the soles of our feet yet seek and steer away from waste matter. We focus on adversity and take time away from the beauty we should appreciate. I don’t understand why. How can we ever honor beauty when we respect our loved ones’ death yet remove dead flowers from their own graves? I can only reply with silence when it is all I have.