Whose fault is it all?
Is it time? Is it genes? Is it fear?
Is it all? Is it none?
Whatever it is, it's fast. It's gone. It's no longer even an excuse.
Pondering in the faraway jungle of memories, recalling the story that serves. Truth becomes irrelevant for the darkened mind to stay alive.
Irrelevant. Hmmm... the food of the engine.
Allowing the Soul to be fed with the other side of the story?
Another side. Truthful. Yet other.
Dreadful to believe but so it haunts the frame. Fear.
Born that way. Genes.
Or the bloody timing of it all? The million-billion year-old drama of Time.
Yet it's breakfast, lunch, dinner and all in between. It's what It feeds off.
It's built by the Self and it's as different as a rose to a deli. Eight billion different words. Numbers. Stars.
Lost in the forgotten.
It's just a click for it all to switch. Into the greatest story ever told.
Respect She said. Ours. Inside. Then we walk off. All grown up.