Passing Ships.

Through the eyes of an onlooker.

I was always going to make it in life, I just wanted to make it grow with you,

I knew, I knew I couldn’t ever be with you,

I watched you, I wanted to catch you, as you began to fear what might happen, turn into nothing happening,

You were trying, I was drowning,

I knew my light was aggravating a lot of unhealed people, but I wanted to just shine anyway, straight in front of you.

I could feel we had the same vibe, and I wanted to learn your past, not to punish you, but to understand how to fully Love you.

The wound wasn’t my responsibility, but the healing was my responsibility.

But I knew this was just a chapter, a chapter with you ; we had a whole book to fuel your’s and mine memory box.

You know Emily and Ernest Hemingway had a sexual relationship with one another for a while, as soon as people began to notice Ernest told Emily he could never commit as a husband as his life was devoted to seeking answers in his writings. They however did write to each other but kept it plutonic.

Reality is an ocean of non existent reality of particle, raining in the void, where the mind eye wrestles, amid the qauntem leap of foam of virtual particles, where the heart’s beat echoes and the soul nestles.

I sense your infinity for magic and mystery, while words of power the soul, we must use them, like we would tread lightly.

Invoking only that which uplifts, dance to the music that soothes the suffering. Tread gently on waters that reflect the whole of creation, for even the stary skies hold darkness, and cast crystals in shadows. we walk a fine line between wonder and peril.

Speak your name with courage, but speak also of care and connection with compassion and consideration of others.

Connect call forth not only what dazzles , but what heavenly gifts we received to help others and yourself to heal. Reach beyond yourself to help uplift others; for the divine playeth in a million forms, reflecting itself in the mirror of each soul. As thy gazeth lovingly in thy brothers face , searching his eyes for a glimpse of thy own truth mirrored there, though findest the divine continence smiling back at thee.

The path of love uniteth what believe themselves to be separate; reminding souls of their true likeness through expressing itself in infinite unlikeliest.

Through love souls recognise one another again after a long forgetting, remembering a lifetime, remembering a time before time, when all were one and of each.

Why do I feel like I’ve lived forever, seen it all before and yet it is simultaneously not enough!

My feelings of eternal reacurance is common ominously whom begin to glimpse to the true nature of reality.The waking dream of worldly life seems endless, with its ups and downs, yet the soul longs for something more, salvation perhaps?

This life is but a drop in the ocean of consciousness. You are the whole ocean, temporaliy caught up in this one wave, this one poem, my neverending story.

Once you realise the truth of yourself beyond names and forms, you will see that you have indeed, seen it all.

If I could have lived in a past life it would have been that of Emily Brontë, who wrote about the world in a creative, provacative, teasing manner of simplicity yet great depths of the world.

Certainly! Emily Brontë was born in Thornton, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, England. She was the fifth of six children born to Maria Branwell and Reverend Patrick Brontë. Emily grew up in a literary family; her father was a published author, and her siblings also went on to become writers.

Emily is best known for her only novel, "Wuthering Heights," which was published in 1847 under the pseudonym Ellis Bell. The novel is now considered a classic of English literature and is known for its dark and complex themes, vivid descriptions of the Yorkshire moors, and passionate characters.

In addition to her novel, Emily also wrote poetry, which was published along with the work of her sisters Charlotte and Anne in a collection titled "Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell" in 1846.

Tragically, Emily Brontë died of tuberculosis on December 19, 1848, at the young age of 30. Despite her brief life and small body of work, she is remembered as one of the greatest writers of the English language.

You can feel the warmth and love with a great understanding that you almost feel the connection between her and Ernest but deep inside she knew that her life too was too write of hidden beauty and majestic bewildering awe, that you feel she is making a point of that there is a greater force amongst us, within us, we were born with this love and looking up, well she knows it is much deeper spi, intangible, yet no physical evidence other than to look up.