When does the storm really end? How can it end when the thunder is kept inside the clouds, and the rain can't sing its sorrow? Is it really possible to contain the rage and despair without letting the tension build?
When does love really begin? When the rose blooms in the winter; when the heart can no longer be controlled by the pull of the moon?
Why does love end? During the falling of leaves, or the last snowfall? With glazed eyes and a heavy heart, why do we paint our feelings with words left unspoken?
The stars have so much to say and I bear no right to hear their wisdom just yet. Are these questions my test to overcome the suffering I have brought upon myself and onto the path of enlightenment? I crave for their knowledge but know it will take an eternity for me to fully understand. The only thing I'm glad about from all this is that it is what keeps me going, because one day I will join the sky and guide the same wondering souls that I used to be.
