Many scoff when they hear of
things, said or done too often
for their palate. But the power
of the act lies not in repetition,
or its absence, but in the act
itself, whether it be performed
once, or a thousand, thousand
times, for as long as there is one
among the throng who is willing
to open himself once more to
wonder, the power of the act will
continue, forever, and for eternity.

I wish I could ariculate,
but it has all been written before.
And yet here I am still dreaming of the ineffable, the inexplicable, the as yet udetermined.

Oh to be a cliche,
idealising times of the past
while th present grows bleaker.

Things lack beauty.
The beauy I find in books and films, are lies when it comes to my reality.
And the arduous task of going on feels like a puzzle impossible to solve but one I cannot leave alone.
Things lack beauty,
for me.

Life lacks the luster I have been shown previously existed,
and by romantising the previous, I only pull myself furthe away from the beauty I know must be here.
It must.
Must't it?

However the rare specks of it I find are the ones in her eyes.
And they parade themselves infront of me, knowingly.

But such things have been written before and will be wrote again.
And yet still I wish to articulate.

Oh to be a cliche.