day 174

nothing is as exact as today.
thereby, today immortalises itself
while, I, as stubborn as I am, can only be mortal.
exact time: time of sacrifice. I write.

I can only sacrifice myself to today. I write.

Reaching the plenitude of stardust kingdoms, we could, perhaps, grant ourselves a little emotion - that of gratitude, because we cannot reach and cannot hope to reach and yet we hope today is the day, to stars we soar. Or so I wrote.

We get by, with the smiles of others we have never met. Have you seen the picture of a baby smiling?
We dream, the little dreams, to forget that we could remember.
when lovers become stardust of yesterday, today is really the music that goes by...

"dreaming of a song, the melody....touch my reverie...and I am once again..."

I wish I hear, the theatre of life, re-imagined as a gentle giant, lending its palms to lift us to the heights of heavens...
And then, we fall like leaves, of autumn, of red and gold. crashed, winter burns...while we hibernate along with silence and immobility.
And shall we then start anew, forming bubbles of suggestions...
swim then, to the fountain of youth, and we won't be too late to be young again.

On our deathbeds, be the theatre of life.
On our birth cradles, perhaps, the sight, as blinding as staring at the sun.

Stare up. And take your last bow.
Yes, take your last bow.

Today is Sunday.