maybe there is no such thing as growth, not figuratively or in an idealistic sense anyway. we think we're all learning to decipher between the lines and periods of sentences spoken, or even the deafening lack of it. the things we swore under exasperated breaths to never repeat, to never relive, suddenly arrive at the foot of our doors in the form of another year, another name, another split second of our dearly guarded walls crumbling down.
maybe all we have is a whirling cycle of circumstance, or tornado if you please. it begins in the calm of a sunny day being enveloped by a mass of gray imposing clouds; then the arrival of the storm over the horizon and its cruel descent on our lives. the catastrophe left of its passing--the helplessness and despair that soon follows after. and then a moment of acceptance, resignation and understanding.. getting off of our knees buried deeply on the ground and cleaning up the mess--salvaging what is left of the crushed and broken, if there is any at all.
/will edit more
