Speckles of Time

There are so many things we do not tell, Or tell only to few. So many important things, Things that made us who we are, Things that still make us who we are, Things that are big, Things that are small, But no matter their size, Things that are crucial. And yet, We expect others to know us. Know us without knowing. How funny is that?

How high can you get Before falling so low? So low that, That none of your wildest dreams compare. ... There must me something... There must me something worth fighting for. ... Without it we are all dead. Alive but dead, Nonetheless.

When you search for it for most of your life, thinking it must be this, no, wait, it must be that, no, no, wait again, it must be here, but no, that is not right, it's probably there. And then, in the end, you realize, it has never been this or that, here or there, it has always been you. ... You are the home.

Just when I start to get angry with you For being obtuse yet again, You surprise me with Your kind words and almost thoughtful remarks. Just when I want to scream at you For being, well, you, You shut me up with Your devilish kiss. Just when I want to burn all the bridges yet again, You put out the fire with Your knowledge of me. It is you who makes me scream in agony, But it is also you who makes me sing like if I knew how to. It is you.