We once we’re joined together in the light and then exploded into dust.
The dust came together and exploded into chemicals.
Then chemicals came together and they exploded into acid.
The acid came together and exploded into life.
Then life came together and exploded at the top of the spine and that exploded into sensing the Divine.
We began creating tools, and then we fixed em to ourselves and kept evolving getting bigger fitting more into our shells.
As we grew, the tools got smaller till they started to resembles independent forces seeming like they tend to self assemble.
Certain patterns we’re repeated till they learned to work in teams and still got smaller ever smaller as we grew toward our dreams.
Evolved as Titans, to a thousand stories, power grown in stride, we look the same but now we’re driven by the cosmos we’ve built inside. Our outermost layer a strong yet flexible hyperdense protein, behold! I name thee skin. We grow until we stretch thin…. We fizzle and collapse upon ourselves again.
And I am gathered to myself, from every particle in sight and I implode till once again we’re all together in the light.
About chrooth
No this isn't some sort of midlife crisis thing. I'm just adapting. Like anyone else on here, or who does this, I believe I am writer. Unlike most others, I believe I am a writer because I have always written. Long story short, I was a really weird kid and sometimes it just felt like the only place I could turn for some solace and empathy was an empty page. I've always been a melodramatic writer and I've been really happy for a long time so I haven't felt the need to write but when I do... I have to. I basically live on the road, so my journal is hardly ever within reach, and when it is I convince myself that I'm too busy to make any time for it. So here I am, embracing the future, having acquired the journal that will follow me almost anywhere. I'm having one of those, "WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE!?" moments, and GOD after so long I can't tell you how good it feels to just let my mind spill through the tips of my fingers again. I suppose this would be an appropriate time to qualify both my ability and my intentions. I am not a good writer. I am told I have a strong tendency towards run-ons, I over punctuate, and I curse like a sailor. I can't spell for crap and especially while typing, I have a tendency to just leave words out. As I mentioned earlier this "blog" is meant as a replacement for my long treasured journal, which tends to imply a need for privacy. However, if you were to ever read my journal, you would eventually come across an entry musing over the purpose of a journal, wondering why they are written and kept in secret. I have no secrets. I had far too many secrets for far too long and I assure you, I have no more energy for them. Additionally, I can not properly conjure any feeling of being heard by manufacturing an imaginary personality that lives in a book and understands my words. So I write, and have always written, to you.
Thanks for reading it!
Chrooth 