Sometimes I struggle to know what ultimately makes me different from everybody else. Am I just a sheep? At times I feel like an angel with special abilities to soar in the clouds and blow blessings to those below. But right now I feel like a replica of something else and I hate it.
I suppose in the end we are all supposed to be alike; we're all able to be sophisticated and poetic and spiritual, and I suppose to be these things is the real goal of humanity. To exceed the nature of being human is to delve in the depths of inner human. Isn't that an interesting quality of humanity? As physical humans, we have the ability to experience beyond that which is physical! Emotions aren't scientific facts that can be explained with perfection or measured in a vile. Not one thing can take the poetry out of me and define it. It is my own, and it is real in a way that science is not. Some people like to classify and lump everything in existence, but art and love are too infinite to bundle into classification. It's common to deal with this complication by ignoring matters and casting them off as insubstantial. If it can't be explained with science then it must be silly and only the ignorant would give life to a concept that has no physical structure, right? I like to spend my time considering that which is more encompassing than a mere textbook, with its limitations and spiritual confinement. I'm not saying because it is true that it's not worth knowing. It is! Oh god is it ever! But what about the thoughts not included in those textbooks? They're still floating around in the abyss of consciousness whether you want them to or not. Your spirit will continue to tug at your mind until you're absolutely aware of it. And until you are, you'll never truly grasp your identity and have peace. Trust me.
The earth is a great place of truth. The mountains, the oceans, the flowers and the rain are all here to teach us that art could not be created without an artist, even if that artist is the evolution of time. But when I think to myself in that moment when all is silent but the whispers of the wind through the trees, and the moon beams at me with all her grace, it doesn't seem likely that I'm just alone. It doesn't seem likely that everything is cruel and meaningless, that we're merely sheep. We all have freedom to think. We all have freedom to imagine.
Please, dare to break the barriers in your head.
