turbulence of assassins

 When I think of the different means of expressing myself, through a kindness of love, or sacred wisdom, or ancient romance, there are so many of these things left in a pure fiction.

 

I totally realize the open level of ideals, translate into meaning all its own. . .

 

I ground myself to this experience, in a reality as individuals, care not appreciate.

 

In all sincerity, my affliction in words may practice upon, I remind myself of many past relationships which I try to complete in my vessel.

 

Many of the real relationships, if one could 'finish', I would have to accept because I cannot.

 

Those things which have charged me to a secret, which all to myself, so many are so fewer still.

 

But when I speak, of these things outside myself, there I am without limits.

 

It's as if the true nature of such ability, will never surrender to the truth. . . this so much a skill. -------------------------

When became a question of 'if' not if when such or such a thing may have occurred. So much of this idea revolves around my bellief, of a personal nature.

My questioning involves, what becomes, loving experiences not if surrounded by lust, greed, fear or temptation.

Nor do I practice religion.

If one deciphers which train I take, to arrive fully to her destination, I am not as happy being lost. That is a bonus.

Now, when I look at my life, there is to a point, the great satisfaction in love as once I thought of near neglect.

I am no longer that person. . .

This kind of love may only come through experience, or not so self-taught, such is myself.

My thought of love, simply leads by such examined practice, so it too may happen.