Chaos

When accidents become intentional and intentions become accidental, it becomes evident that there is more going on than what is apparent to the eye. It is the lies that aren’t told that sometimes are the ones that truly effect us, and under the spell of complacency, we underestimate hearts and find in our minds our own ideas of what people are like. What one day was the childish reaction to the body’s ideals can soon become the unending chaos of realism, but whether it is truly in reality or in the reality of possibility it is almost impossible to determine. Despite constant efforts to contain said chaos, as time continues it becomes virtually impossible to ignore such a longing. Nights are spent awake with roiling thoughts and days are spent with throbbing headaches from a mind in desperate attempts to cover up its vanity.

Where hearts are sown together with patches, and minds strung together with lies, what is it that makes us tick? If we were to pluck the strings of our own hearts, would they sing the notes we want to hear? If the inner voice of contentment spoke not what the confusion of the mind stands to reason, where would our loyalties lie? And if, in the spur of the moment, truth of reciprocation ensued, would we make the leap? But if not, would we be crushed, or come to a new realization? Is it in time that we would seek the truth, or in the assets of our own mind?

The question has boiled to a point of no return. Or, maybe it’s past that. The better question is, will I ever get past it?

It all ends up just like a tootsie pop: the world may never know.