We never gave our ghosts time to catch up, but ran like freed slaves; like orphaned children back into the arms of their mothers. We flew into the embrace of freedom and laid claim once more to our hearts. We stood like kings refusing to yeild, and dared a world to break us. With our eyes wet with the joy that was the peace of being known, we caught up in the song of those few that had come before us. We swam in the seas of honesty and drank so deep as to never thirst for anything again.

Simply- we lived.

It was the beginning of everything good that has ever happened to me. It was the beginning of everything i want to never loose. It was the beginning of the awakening, and now i can not return to my dreaming. I can no longer except an existence in which i close my eyes and imagine what life could be. Because of these brothers I have been swept up in the battle of living my life, and i plan to do just that!     

If there are women, and there certainly are, who can be as treacherous and alluring as the sea than surely a man can be an island. If not- than at least some find, or at some point have found, themselves wrecked; lost to dangerous and unforgiving waters.

It is strange, this thing that calls to them. It Pulls them from the pace of their lives and casts them out to unfamiliar shores. They dare the deep and often dark waters at a chance they themselves could never explain, or at least they are unable to find a way to put it into words.

Once he takes to the open, a man could go the whole of his life and never find his way back to calmer tides. If you had the uncommon luck to stumble upon such a man and he has somehow found his way back, if for nothing else but pity- give him two things. Give him room and if you are able to accommodate the second, give him a moment to focuss himself.

You see, it is no simple thing to pull oneself back to reality; not a simple thing at all. I can't tell you why. I haven't quit found the words. But i can say this, there will not be a day that he's eyes do not search the horizon. He is no doubt a haunted man now, and his ghosts do not sleep. Perhaps its the pursuit of something, the only thing, left to him wild and worth the effort involved to find. Maybe it's the shift of all the things in his life that seem to have dulled in their colors. Or it could have simply been the way she smiled...

There are “haunted hearts” who need to be pursued so desperately that anything less is a further insult- leaving them only needing that much more out of the next suitor who happens along, until eventually no one is able to fill their longings.

There is strength sure. But so foreboding that it forces itself in the faces of everyone around until the room in consumed with the sadness that is a heart needing so desperately someone to say it is of worth. These are the hearts of the lost!

Still I suppose these hearts are not nearly as sad as those who see theirs as a burden. Those kept close and secure. For these individuals the possibility for love is merely the possibility for pain. With a history of love that has shown them no outweighing of the latter they would rather pass on any chance that comes their way than to risk the repeating of so many tears. These are the hearts of those who constantly ask, “When will my chance find me” and then turn from any pursuit aimed their way. These are the hearts of the lonely!

The saddest of all hearts however belong to those souls who calculate, who weigh out security and effort to arrive at either a place suitable for companionship or not. Those “settled hearts” who come to except their fates and cuddle up to an ideal image of what love could some day look like, choosing to disregard the longing for something more- something incredible. These are the hearts of empty stares, who, from behind glazed eyes, dream of a time when their passion overflowed. These are the hearts of the dead!  

However- Hope! For there are hearts among us who would not be any of the above. There are hearts among us who shape history, which mold the dreams of children and run amongst the pages of bedtime stories. I wish to be counted among the ranks such as these. Those hearts which beat so fiercely as to drive all others from their presence. Those consuming blazes that tear into the darkness with such reckless abandonment that even the stars can not help to stop and watch them in all their glorious burning. Those hearts who have no room for ghost nor the idolness of fear. Those hearts who chase down teh seas. I wish to be a heart that mocks the deceased and calls them from their graves. Saying, “Come. Come and live”. These are the hearts of the strong. These are the hearts of the Living!