✍️ Arts/Lit The Futile Attempt

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You are becoming a habit already...
The intimation leaves wanted speculations, yet more uncertainties,
bordering on banalities that are hard to ignore,
sweetly E×ρréššed in a contagious determination...

but why empty the ocean... when you can swim.
 
You are becoming a habit already...
The intimation leaves wanted speculations, yet more uncertainties,
bordering on banalities that are hard to ignore,
sweetly E×ρréššed in a contagious determination...

but why empty the ocean... when you can swim.

I can't tell reality from fiction. Anything you want to learn you have to take into your hands excessively. Exaggerate it. You see, every almost held a promise.
It is a big attempt of coming close between wanting and not wanting to be wanted. The imbalance of expecting nothing but still allowed to ask.

P.S.
I drowned.
 
I agree it's an exercise in futility.

Indistinguishable reality, Indistinguishable dream...
the unconscious transition between the state
of assimilation becoming cognizant
and still, be blurry unaware.

Almost is a promise by itself. And it's always broken.
It is an ambiguous point somewhere in time between near and not there yet,
not surprisingly though, it won't get there, obviously not anytime, not for all eternity.
It's the agony in irony.

Well, tomorrow never knows. It's a promise, not a guarantee.

P.S
I envy your drowning, you get your lungs filled up with water, and you're still singing.
 
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Somnolent

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