Beauty (mostly tragic)

I write so much.
I write so much.
I write so much.

I write so much, I write so much, I write so much.

It's gotten me this far, why shouldn't I use it in my advantage to get me farther?
Because I enjoy other things too. I see beauty (mostly tragic) in everything and therefore consider all of the planet Earth I have been made miraculously formed to live upon, all to be a form of art. The way the leaves on the branches dance and the way the fields and the meadows sway. The sound of the windchime in perfect harmony with the thoughts in your head. The dramatic entrance of a black thunderstorm followed by again, a white sky. All of the colours, all of the inventions, all that is natural. All that is dying and is long dead, all that is yet to be born. I'm living my life now with all of my sensory organs and glands, opened upwards toward the skies and the space and the sun and the moon. And I am not dying any more because I have learned how to really feel.

Too, I am giddied with anything and everything that is Leonardo da Vinci and likewise, feel romanticized in everything that is him or has come from him. I know that if I could, I would already have a body covered in black and clay-colour, imprinted ink that should last me until my dying breath, of pictures and portraits and verses and all that is Leonardo da Vinci.

Isn't that romantic? That romanticized emotion and reason in passion for the diction that I chose to express such, is just exactly how the man makes me feel. And that is one of, if not the most precious and sacred things one human being, or any infintissimal living organism for that matter can give to someone or something else: a feeling.

I don't foresee myself ever feeling opposed to or in doubt of that statement, either. A feeling, a feeling, a feeling.

A feeling.
A feeling.
A feeling.

That's what we've all been waiting for our entire lives. The opportuinity to feel and not be afraid of feeling. Feeling, feeling, feeling.

Feeling the sun, feeling the touch, feeling the breath, the breath hot and short from another on your own skin, and feeling the breath slow and soothed floating in and out of your own lungs. Feeling the sweat, feeling the hotness behind the tearducts, feeling the love.

Feeling the love, feeling the love, feeling the love.

We're all dying, wasting away in the wait for a chance to really feel the love. THAT'S WHAT MAKES ME FEEL LOVED. Knowing that, at this very moment, there are 6 billion people out there, all the same decaying slowly and soundly under the sun and the moon, and each of them, waiting in both disbelief and conviction for the chance to feel you and me, and they are waiting to feel us feeling them too.