I wish I would have gotten to know you, I truly do. Wish I could have seen you ride around the cul-de-sac in your new bike, Birthday balloons would have surely drifted towards my yard on occasion. And that would have been okay. All of it. Running around, playing with grass, laughing like only little kids do.
No big words or metaphors needed. I met you for what seemed like two seconds. And then the next day, you were gone. Pried out of life's hands so suddenly, I wasn't sure how to react. When I arrived, you were no longer with us.
Dear, wherever you are, may the angels watch over you. Your departure was shocking. I'm still unsure how to react. Not sure I'll ever be. Rest in peace Matthew.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
The Last in Line
After the storm passed, I looked around and caught glimpses of things that once belonged to me. This pile of broken dreams and broken spirits laid to waste, seemingly there as stark reminders of nature's force. Amidst the desolation, there were fragments of memories too fluid to crystallize or melt away. The storm obliterated all.
How do we pick up the pieces of our discontent? The glass shards cut deepest where the skin is exposed; that delicate yet fragile layer of make-believe.
Here, beneath the rubble, we found subtle signs of life. We thought the storm had devastated everything. Here in the dead of winter, there was something we had missed. Its heartbeat was shallow yes, but there was life, looking back at us in open mockery.
Sleepwalking. We found ourselves in a spectral embrace too rigid to shake. Eyes wide closed, stumbling to find, nay, to touch, whatever strings remained. The lightning had made killing fields of our surroundings. The smoke wafted deep into our lungs. We could taste the killing that had occurred.
The situation while clear required deep thinking. Damaging winds and lesser demons hid within tunnels and around corners, chasing us, deeper into the chasm. These creatures of irreverence lashed at our ankles with deadly precision, hoping to find the exposed skin and bleed us out.
Had we lost their protection? Were their wings no longer flapping towards us? Their chanting had ceased and we were all on our own. These angels who once guided us, had disappeared full of melancholy and hysteria. We must have been the last in line; the ones that evaded their concerns and awkward glances.
Make ourselves whole again. Make ourselves into sparkling visions. Ones that bleed and still show signs of life. Ones that blur into images of unknown artists, coping, describing, creating. Unrelenting visions armored to the teeth, yet exposing open wounds.
The glass shards lay there underneath a pile of broken dreams. Coalescing into the mirror we once used to know.
How do we pick up the pieces of our discontent? The glass shards cut deepest where the skin is exposed; that delicate yet fragile layer of make-believe.
Here, beneath the rubble, we found subtle signs of life. We thought the storm had devastated everything. Here in the dead of winter, there was something we had missed. Its heartbeat was shallow yes, but there was life, looking back at us in open mockery.
Sleepwalking. We found ourselves in a spectral embrace too rigid to shake. Eyes wide closed, stumbling to find, nay, to touch, whatever strings remained. The lightning had made killing fields of our surroundings. The smoke wafted deep into our lungs. We could taste the killing that had occurred.
The situation while clear required deep thinking. Damaging winds and lesser demons hid within tunnels and around corners, chasing us, deeper into the chasm. These creatures of irreverence lashed at our ankles with deadly precision, hoping to find the exposed skin and bleed us out.
Had we lost their protection? Were their wings no longer flapping towards us? Their chanting had ceased and we were all on our own. These angels who once guided us, had disappeared full of melancholy and hysteria. We must have been the last in line; the ones that evaded their concerns and awkward glances.
Make ourselves whole again. Make ourselves into sparkling visions. Ones that bleed and still show signs of life. Ones that blur into images of unknown artists, coping, describing, creating. Unrelenting visions armored to the teeth, yet exposing open wounds.
The glass shards lay there underneath a pile of broken dreams. Coalescing into the mirror we once used to know.
Monday, March 14, 2016
The Tempest
Higher ground. We seek to understand the ins and outs of life. Time passing ever so fast that moments last less than the blink of an eye. Moments scream their misfortunes and disenchantment in the midst of blinding snow, so thick and irreverent, that all is lost in the translation.
There are days certainly where one tends to wounds and headaches born from less than desirable situations. Days spent listening to rain drops and soothing thunder. Days where dizziness lingers and one does what one can to compartmentalize and breathe.
It comes and goes in waves, this feeling of not belonging. It buries itself in the aftermath of our desperation, at times both hell and salvation.
Nonetheless, we travel onward, to the lesser of our evils. It is the cold reality we face. It is the undercurrent, keeping us afloat and simultaneously drowning us, keeping us pinned against the rocks. The sharpness of these, striking us in places kept guarded and thought impenetrable.
Still, we breathe. We give light to the canvas and make our mark like paint drops from an obscure painter. His brush heavy at times with the weight of our inconsistencies and unspoken truths. The painting becomes enigmatic, spectral in nature. It casts its shadow during those times of the day where we fail to remember.
These are the thoughts of wayward souls, drifting suddenly into the midst of blinding snow. Constantly seeking to understand our place in the world, be it barren, be it alone. We thrive by instinct and a keen sense of the wondrous and innately beautiful, seeking the light in the darkest corners of the tempest.
There are days certainly where one tends to wounds and headaches born from less than desirable situations. Days spent listening to rain drops and soothing thunder. Days where dizziness lingers and one does what one can to compartmentalize and breathe.
It comes and goes in waves, this feeling of not belonging. It buries itself in the aftermath of our desperation, at times both hell and salvation.
Nonetheless, we travel onward, to the lesser of our evils. It is the cold reality we face. It is the undercurrent, keeping us afloat and simultaneously drowning us, keeping us pinned against the rocks. The sharpness of these, striking us in places kept guarded and thought impenetrable.
Still, we breathe. We give light to the canvas and make our mark like paint drops from an obscure painter. His brush heavy at times with the weight of our inconsistencies and unspoken truths. The painting becomes enigmatic, spectral in nature. It casts its shadow during those times of the day where we fail to remember.
These are the thoughts of wayward souls, drifting suddenly into the midst of blinding snow. Constantly seeking to understand our place in the world, be it barren, be it alone. We thrive by instinct and a keen sense of the wondrous and innately beautiful, seeking the light in the darkest corners of the tempest.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Before the Rain
The clouds rolled in wafting of damp air and the unusual possibility that rain may fall. It was one of those afternoons that crackled with electricity. A thunder cloud lingered nearby directing warm air currents and the occasional breeze. With it came the lingering smell of your perfume.
Not much was said that could not be understood. Your radiant self, your presence, the breeze weaving itself through your hair. It all made sense. In that moment, everything that could make sense, did.
For all we know, 20 years may have passed. My ears perked up to familiar French words and familiar jazz. It was all relevant, and it wasn't. The writer observed his surroundings, looking to make sense of the real and the dream.
Was the old couple our future selves? Every so often, I'd catch her glance. The silver-haired lady spoke with conviction, with passion and determination. She'd look back as if she watched a familiar figure. Perhaps someone who loved her long ago. Perhaps she found love, knocking at her door all those years back.
In front of me, I found happiness, I found zest, I found a passion not known to most. Yet, there it was, looking into my soul, deciphering my thoughts. And I would look back once in a while, to observe the silver-haired woman and wonder if they were one and the same.
Did the setting matter? It did not. We both knew, that the time shared was inexplicably much more layered. The subtleties around us were a reflection of this cascading connection. My counterpart. Drenched in curtains part beauty and part starlight.
The rain never came. Emotions swam. The writer observed and jotted down notes in the journal of the soul. Notes that matter. Notes that speak to what was shared. The eyes spoke volumes.
The embrace came after conversation and laughter; after a culmination of shared thoughts, shared desires and thing that resonate that cannot be ignored.
The embrace signaled so much. Eyes closed. Listening. Memorable. Deeply felt. A quiet dance.
It failed goodbye. It meant much more. The clouds rolled away giving way to the sun. The writer, with his heart joyous and true, just smiled. It was the greatest of afternoons.
Not much was said that could not be understood. Your radiant self, your presence, the breeze weaving itself through your hair. It all made sense. In that moment, everything that could make sense, did.
For all we know, 20 years may have passed. My ears perked up to familiar French words and familiar jazz. It was all relevant, and it wasn't. The writer observed his surroundings, looking to make sense of the real and the dream.
Was the old couple our future selves? Every so often, I'd catch her glance. The silver-haired lady spoke with conviction, with passion and determination. She'd look back as if she watched a familiar figure. Perhaps someone who loved her long ago. Perhaps she found love, knocking at her door all those years back.
In front of me, I found happiness, I found zest, I found a passion not known to most. Yet, there it was, looking into my soul, deciphering my thoughts. And I would look back once in a while, to observe the silver-haired woman and wonder if they were one and the same.
Did the setting matter? It did not. We both knew, that the time shared was inexplicably much more layered. The subtleties around us were a reflection of this cascading connection. My counterpart. Drenched in curtains part beauty and part starlight.
The rain never came. Emotions swam. The writer observed and jotted down notes in the journal of the soul. Notes that matter. Notes that speak to what was shared. The eyes spoke volumes.
The embrace came after conversation and laughter; after a culmination of shared thoughts, shared desires and thing that resonate that cannot be ignored.
The embrace signaled so much. Eyes closed. Listening. Memorable. Deeply felt. A quiet dance.
It failed goodbye. It meant much more. The clouds rolled away giving way to the sun. The writer, with his heart joyous and true, just smiled. It was the greatest of afternoons.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Softly as in a Morning's Sunrise
The colors are blinding as night gives way to the light in an unspoken language. Long ago perhaps, this language was spoken by all. I'd like to think that the moon spoke to the sun and the stars to the night; conversations that were whispered in soft melodic tones deep in the corners of our universe.
The morning dew colored with the sunrise, in a solemn embrace crystallized in time for all time. Its colors soft and gentle allow the morning to percolate and find its center.
This unspoken language registers still when we look to the stars in the dead of night, when we caress wet flower petals, when we look outside our window as the sun's rays reach out to us. We continuously identify with our spirit and our guiding force. Everything seems germane.
I'd like to think that the sun is longing to be embraced, its arms stretched wide across the sky, hoping to reach the moon and re-enact their dance; evangelizing its intentions.
The moon, illuminated and stoic, looks upon us with beguiling eyes, revealing our path and enhancing our deepest of emotions. Children of the moon and the sun both. We rise, we fall, we find beauty in the dark and the light; an amalgamation of our being, passionate and inquisitive.
Somewhere in the distance, starlight reaches us, a light borne from the past, speaking to us and allowing us to contemplate what we cannot understand. Starlight proliferates our sensations and our most deeply held secrets, weaving its way into our proclivities and mysteries.
It is befitting perhaps, that this unspoken language is barely recognizable anymore. As softly as in a morning's sunrise, it rises unbending, calling out to memories and long lost words in its textures and shades.
Perhaps it is only meant to be understood by some. Children of the moon and the sun.
The morning dew colored with the sunrise, in a solemn embrace crystallized in time for all time. Its colors soft and gentle allow the morning to percolate and find its center.
This unspoken language registers still when we look to the stars in the dead of night, when we caress wet flower petals, when we look outside our window as the sun's rays reach out to us. We continuously identify with our spirit and our guiding force. Everything seems germane.
I'd like to think that the sun is longing to be embraced, its arms stretched wide across the sky, hoping to reach the moon and re-enact their dance; evangelizing its intentions.
The moon, illuminated and stoic, looks upon us with beguiling eyes, revealing our path and enhancing our deepest of emotions. Children of the moon and the sun both. We rise, we fall, we find beauty in the dark and the light; an amalgamation of our being, passionate and inquisitive.
Somewhere in the distance, starlight reaches us, a light borne from the past, speaking to us and allowing us to contemplate what we cannot understand. Starlight proliferates our sensations and our most deeply held secrets, weaving its way into our proclivities and mysteries.
It is befitting perhaps, that this unspoken language is barely recognizable anymore. As softly as in a morning's sunrise, it rises unbending, calling out to memories and long lost words in its textures and shades.
Perhaps it is only meant to be understood by some. Children of the moon and the sun.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
Gravity
William Shakespeare once famously stated in A Midsummer Night's Dream the following, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." What makes it such a stirring quote is how it is representative of many of Shakespeare's most moving written works; to ignore what can be seen and to gravitate towards what can be felt.
We live in a world where we've lost the ability to pay attention to the vibes around us. We are conditioned to fall in love with the physical versus substance. It is a failure in recognizing the world that dances around us without being grasped.
I began rummaging through Shakespeare's works when I was 15 years old. Immediately, I was attracted to the magical properties beneath the fabric of the storytelling; there is more to the world than what can be seen. There is an energy, palpable at times, elusive in other instances, that runs through the spider-web around us. I drank his writings and spent ample time reading between the lines, to attempt to comprehend the story behind the story at such a young age.
In some stories, it lasts mere days, take Romeo and Juliet. In others, it can last a lifetime. Time is of no significance when encountered with such force. And I think Shakespeare understood that. He paid attention. To write like William, he surely felt deep rooted passions in his life at some point both young or old. As a matter of fact, there are sonnets so full of passion, that they resonate with a mysterious muse, clearly someone he loved intensely.
He left us works of such passion and intense love that nowadays are simply ignored, left on the top shelf to gather dust and wasted years.
Cupid finds himself blind; his wings clipped, his quiver empty. Embrace the tempest that is what our eyes interpret. Find instead that elusive intensity and passion found all around us, in the dance, in the strings that connect us.
We live in a world where we've lost the ability to pay attention to the vibes around us. We are conditioned to fall in love with the physical versus substance. It is a failure in recognizing the world that dances around us without being grasped.
I began rummaging through Shakespeare's works when I was 15 years old. Immediately, I was attracted to the magical properties beneath the fabric of the storytelling; there is more to the world than what can be seen. There is an energy, palpable at times, elusive in other instances, that runs through the spider-web around us. I drank his writings and spent ample time reading between the lines, to attempt to comprehend the story behind the story at such a young age.
In some stories, it lasts mere days, take Romeo and Juliet. In others, it can last a lifetime. Time is of no significance when encountered with such force. And I think Shakespeare understood that. He paid attention. To write like William, he surely felt deep rooted passions in his life at some point both young or old. As a matter of fact, there are sonnets so full of passion, that they resonate with a mysterious muse, clearly someone he loved intensely.
He left us works of such passion and intense love that nowadays are simply ignored, left on the top shelf to gather dust and wasted years.
Cupid finds himself blind; his wings clipped, his quiver empty. Embrace the tempest that is what our eyes interpret. Find instead that elusive intensity and passion found all around us, in the dance, in the strings that connect us.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Dream Gypsy
I couldn't let go. Even if I wanted to, the solemnness was deafening; the absence of rain, desperate. I told myself to be still, to stay the course. Yet, there I was, declaring emotions held deep within the caves of my soul. It happened so swiftly and took so much force, that by the end, I was breathless.
Dream Gypsy. If I should write a book for you, the titular character would be named as such. You are new and old, reserved and earth shaking. Brash, yet vulnerable. Piercing my soul with such force, that I cannot fully comprehend the whys and I dare not even attempt to turn my head and look. And during that piercing, when your sword is removed, it takes with it a piece of my soul.
Dear Gypsy. Dedicated to you are some of my aspirations, my words, my desires, my most intimate of conversations and emotions. Days and nights have been witness to such a theater; to your vulnerabilities, to your deeply held secrets, your sadness, your torment.
Yet, here we are. With some direction, with a timeline. Life is short dear Gypsy. Life beckons. In certain ways, it becomes clear. In others, it becomes elusive. We both understand.
Your poignant smile always tinged with a sadness; one I long to remove. The loneliness can be daunting at times dear Gypsy. Yet, you are still, burning inside my chest. The sword, recently removed.
In dreams, in reality, let us find that elusive happiness. Let us find the whispers that speak to just us. The storm, the silence, the things that no one else can comprehend. There is a place for us in this world dear Gypsy. And while the first few chapters may be breathless, the final few are unforgettable.
Dream Gypsy. If I should write a book for you, the titular character would be named as such. You are new and old, reserved and earth shaking. Brash, yet vulnerable. Piercing my soul with such force, that I cannot fully comprehend the whys and I dare not even attempt to turn my head and look. And during that piercing, when your sword is removed, it takes with it a piece of my soul.
Dear Gypsy. Dedicated to you are some of my aspirations, my words, my desires, my most intimate of conversations and emotions. Days and nights have been witness to such a theater; to your vulnerabilities, to your deeply held secrets, your sadness, your torment.
Yet, here we are. With some direction, with a timeline. Life is short dear Gypsy. Life beckons. In certain ways, it becomes clear. In others, it becomes elusive. We both understand.
Your poignant smile always tinged with a sadness; one I long to remove. The loneliness can be daunting at times dear Gypsy. Yet, you are still, burning inside my chest. The sword, recently removed.
In dreams, in reality, let us find that elusive happiness. Let us find the whispers that speak to just us. The storm, the silence, the things that no one else can comprehend. There is a place for us in this world dear Gypsy. And while the first few chapters may be breathless, the final few are unforgettable.
Monday, March 7, 2016
Spellbound Well Into the Morning
The standard process by which we operate contains a fatal flaw. It is something ingrained deep within our circuits and our collective experiences; our inability to find passion in the most (to some) mundane of activities.
We live in such a hurry up mode, that most signals are missed when moving from one stage in life to the other. Even in our day to day, we focus on the to do's, we focus on the items we deem most relevant; be they work related, financial status, the number of likes on a particular photo, the quagmire that is social media. We are always looking for the new car smell.
But what about stopping, and sitting and finding joys in the small things in life? Sit at a cafe and linger for hours on end, with no destination in mind. Breathing, actually breathing. Not just looking, but truly opening our eyes.
The other night, I found myself star gazing well past midnight. And I found such joy in that moment, looking up on a clear cold night. Wondering if anyone else was finding the same joy I was.
Passion. It can be found in everything. A kiss, a glance, a cup of coffee, watching the ocean, walking through uncharted alleyways, reading, writing... Be passionate. If there's one thing that we truly have no real concept of, is our time on this earth.
Make the time you spend here truly memorable. Seek passion in all your affairs. Be around passionate people. Look for others that find the remarkable in the mundane; the magical in the absolute. Look behind the veil of words and interpret their true meaning. Be passionate when passion beckons. Follow it. Wallow in it.
Perhaps as I get older, I recognize this more and more. The need, the desire to be around it. Passion. Music. Deep conversations. Long nights. Early mornings.
There is a whole realm of possibilities that open up when one tinkers with and surrenders to passion. Don't become a bystander in life. Be the hand that moves the wand, and don't just cast the spell, but become spellbound by it.
We live in such a hurry up mode, that most signals are missed when moving from one stage in life to the other. Even in our day to day, we focus on the to do's, we focus on the items we deem most relevant; be they work related, financial status, the number of likes on a particular photo, the quagmire that is social media. We are always looking for the new car smell.
But what about stopping, and sitting and finding joys in the small things in life? Sit at a cafe and linger for hours on end, with no destination in mind. Breathing, actually breathing. Not just looking, but truly opening our eyes.
The other night, I found myself star gazing well past midnight. And I found such joy in that moment, looking up on a clear cold night. Wondering if anyone else was finding the same joy I was.
Passion. It can be found in everything. A kiss, a glance, a cup of coffee, watching the ocean, walking through uncharted alleyways, reading, writing... Be passionate. If there's one thing that we truly have no real concept of, is our time on this earth.
Make the time you spend here truly memorable. Seek passion in all your affairs. Be around passionate people. Look for others that find the remarkable in the mundane; the magical in the absolute. Look behind the veil of words and interpret their true meaning. Be passionate when passion beckons. Follow it. Wallow in it.
Perhaps as I get older, I recognize this more and more. The need, the desire to be around it. Passion. Music. Deep conversations. Long nights. Early mornings.
There is a whole realm of possibilities that open up when one tinkers with and surrenders to passion. Don't become a bystander in life. Be the hand that moves the wand, and don't just cast the spell, but become spellbound by it.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Fire to the Rain
A week. A mere week. Time has a peculiar way of compartmentalizing, or in some cases, taking a lifetime of memories and consolidating them into mere days. It's haunting truly, to look back and relive these moments of such exquisite pleasure, in such a small window. The simple things.
Life trickles by unnoticed at times. You get used to things. You get used to normalcy, an order to things. Which is why when something magical just so happens to register, it registers with thunder; it registers with fire and with rain.
It is possible that the entire time, you've been seeking it, subconsciously. Wishing that this magic materializes in the most unexpected of times. Under a blanket of stars. Intoxicating.
This magic is enthralling. It takes a hold of you with such force. Your entire being shakes, you lack focus. You long for more. And you hope it never goes away.
How does one deal with this newly found force? Why is it here, when life gets in the way?
Perhaps, it is meant to be a part of life rather than an illusion. Perhaps it is no mere illusion, but rather the recognition of something greater, a signal, a beacon. It illuminates every crevice of your soul. How else to reconcile the subtleties of it all; the spark, the glances, the vibrations, the meaning between the lines, the forcefulness of such things.
I long to revisit this force, in my dreams, my thoughts and in reality. Because that's where I feel it belongs; this magic, this sweet perfume of collective words, unspoken, yet so very real.
The rain, a mere background for the spectacle of unspoken words. The fire, a force of change, burning away old and jumbled memories, giving way to the recognition of something that cannot and should not be ignored. The universe has a funny way of correcting things.
The coals whisper as the rain drops fall one after the other. They whisper in the dead of night. Remember this. Remember how we set fire to the rain. Give time to time. Remember. And let us set fire to it once again.
Life trickles by unnoticed at times. You get used to things. You get used to normalcy, an order to things. Which is why when something magical just so happens to register, it registers with thunder; it registers with fire and with rain.
It is possible that the entire time, you've been seeking it, subconsciously. Wishing that this magic materializes in the most unexpected of times. Under a blanket of stars. Intoxicating.
This magic is enthralling. It takes a hold of you with such force. Your entire being shakes, you lack focus. You long for more. And you hope it never goes away.
How does one deal with this newly found force? Why is it here, when life gets in the way?
Perhaps, it is meant to be a part of life rather than an illusion. Perhaps it is no mere illusion, but rather the recognition of something greater, a signal, a beacon. It illuminates every crevice of your soul. How else to reconcile the subtleties of it all; the spark, the glances, the vibrations, the meaning between the lines, the forcefulness of such things.
I long to revisit this force, in my dreams, my thoughts and in reality. Because that's where I feel it belongs; this magic, this sweet perfume of collective words, unspoken, yet so very real.
The rain, a mere background for the spectacle of unspoken words. The fire, a force of change, burning away old and jumbled memories, giving way to the recognition of something that cannot and should not be ignored. The universe has a funny way of correcting things.
The coals whisper as the rain drops fall one after the other. They whisper in the dead of night. Remember this. Remember how we set fire to the rain. Give time to time. Remember. And let us set fire to it once again.
Monday, February 29, 2016
The Elusiveness of the Wolf
An attempt at understanding signals can be construed as an exercise in torture or worse. There are subtleties that envelop what we do in such ways, that they render us unable to speak, unable to move. We feel as if suspended in air, a cautionary tale for other wandering souls, looking for ground beneath their feet.
As the world churns along, we become desensitized to innate nuances, gut feelings once considered emphatic and deliberate. The more likely scenario is that we are herded like sheep, unable to discern the sheepherder from the wolf.
This is one of those crossroads where it seems unlikely that either decision will be the correct one; the proverbial lesser of two evils. But why do we find ourselves in such a dilemma? Typically, our actions leads to other actions, which inevitably present themselves in either rewards or consequences. But is it truly this black and white? Is there room perhaps for shades of grey to manifest themselves?
Perhaps as we lose our primal sense of self, the task becomes harder to scrutinize; the magnifying glass foggier with time, elusive.
Social media has become a beacon for tag lines of such vitriolic nature that one has to wonder, do people truly believe in what is spewed out of their mouths? We are constantly bombarded by opinions which range from idiotic to slightly idiotic. The range truly does not deviate from this path.
For every 400 times I stumble upon either a tagline or a self-indulgent summary, one does wonder... to quote the awesome 80's band Queensryche,
"Is there anybody listening?
Is there anyone that sees what's going on?
Read between the lines, criticize the words they're selling
Read between the lines, criticize the words they're selling
Think for yourself and feel the walls become sand beneath your feet"
- Anybody Listening - Queensryche
Say it over and over again, until it becomes who/what you are. Be the one that is able to identify with the subtleties and nuances of the universe. Charge the gates of your castle. Focus. Regain what we are desperately losing; our sense of self, our instincts. Join the collective efforts to improve our condition not by smiting the weird and unhinged, but by grasping to what still remains and inviting those with similar focus into your circle.
Our instincts. Use them. Listen to that innate voice that does not self-indulge, but rather it smooths out the wrinkles to persevere and conquer. I am the wolf.
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