Unfinished random paths,
So many unfinished random paths.
Some of the paths almost appear to have a direction. Some kind of predetermined course that makes for a pretty life, or at least one that makes any sense. I don't understand how other people plan it. Or how they use erasers to blur the lines.
Even though the past doesn't actually exist you'd think that it does living as a Homo sapien. We try to convince ourselves that it does exist. From the moment our thoughts stray away from pictures and begin to take the form of words. To imagine that the moment that we are in now will one day be forever gone, as will we, is too difficult to be aware of.
In our hearts there might be a glimmer of color left by the time we turn, whatever age it is that we are, but it's held back by the other things that we've constructed outside of ourselves.
Even if the paths do go in some kind of planned direction, our life is always unfinished. Maybe that's why so many people feel incomplete, it's because they understand that they are.