The waves calmed me down.
The silence around calmed me a wee bit more.
I smiled inwardly.
Taking out a piece of paper, I tried to soak in the beauty around me. To muse.
And it worked.
I wrote again of a thing called beauty, of the flowers, of love and of course, of her.
I then got up, walked a few kilometers and sat down in another part of the world. Crowds were bustling around me. Running around in circles. Zombie-ish : these walking dead bodies. I wrote again of their beauty.
Then home. The bed. The beauty of sleep. Of home sweet home home.
Beauty in death. In a child. In a tear drop.
Of a smile. Of contradictions. Of love.
There's more. I couldn't perceive anymore. I couldn't think.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever? Fuck. What if everything was beautiful? I was dying slowly. Rotting. I could only see beauty. I was sick of it. Sick of the one word vocabulary.
The cynic in me was withering away. But but BUT!
It was beautiful, you know. Like the withering wintery leaves.
There is too much beauty in my life, I guess Mr. Keats?