This is where the problem lies; knowing the end. It is saddening to be aware of how the ending will be. It shatters us to the core knowing there is a finish line, knowing this is all merely the high. That's the problem when you've already died and revived yourself; you're never fully alive again. It isn't the same as the first time, that wound has left a scar and this scar is a reminder that the finish line is what you deem it. I feel like I've acquired the taste of disappointment and maybe that's why I can't adjust myself to this new flavor, a mixture of chance, hope, and love; a tang so heavenly. I attempted and I continue to attempt building a home in a land to which I don't belong. There is still that voice that asks, how can I mold it into an asylum when it is not mine? How can I stay, reside in a place that is overcrowded? How did I lead myself here? But I silence that voice because I am so overwhelmed by the thought of what might be. The what if's and maybe's are intoxicating but here I am inhaling all the unrealistic possibilities in hope that the end might be modified. The feeling of home can't be enforced it is a choice. This choice isn't an independent one it has to be two sided otherwise the four walls that are holding us together eventually collapse for when the base isn't strong, when it isn't solid it falls apart and when it does it takes a piece of us with it. A piece we can't get back, we can't recollect. We are left scarred. Yet the scars we bear aren't a shame they are power. These wounds will heal and they will mend us into warriors. This hurt will end and we will blossom.
Her tears were enough to reignite the flames of my rage, a fragile soul made of roses and daisies in such pain, unable to connect the dots between this man and the dad she knows from worn out photographs her mother keeps in the top drawer of her dresser that is slowly falling apart, she gazes into her father's eyes and it finally clicks that this is her dad, the man in the picture is real, this is the very first time she set her big, brown eyes on her dad, and she breaks down into showers of tear turning her face from pale to scarlet, filling every inch of her body with inexperienced joy. The mothers falling to their knees, eyes clouded with tears in complete denial that this day has finally shined upon them, the days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, and she patiently waits holding on by her faith in God, she sees her son and breaks down, he might be injured and his legs are at the brink of being amputated, but in that moment nothing matters but him, he is h
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