It's July.
I'm tired of all the smoke.
Ironic how a person who hates being anchored down is also hopeful
to find her solace in stability.
So full of emptied hope.
I'm tired of holding my breath, so so so tired.
How do I figure my heart out from here when I'm
always on the run?
Any second I feel the anchor sinking in for me to stay, I get all hasty.
To cut the ropes, to stay, to cut the ropes, to cut it all, to cut this rope.
Who cares if this sea is of blood the same as mine, I'll run if I wanted to.
You see, I believe that a pretty place is only as pretty as a visitor sees it.
Once you settle down, even a magical town could shift to be just another place.
I take things for granted. I hold people up to a pedestal, too.
Thought I was getting at it: to want is the foremost, then I have to have a go at it.
Figuring out a human, I have to be human. To be human, I must see you and myself for as is.
You cannot expect a person to become beyond more than what a human is.
Places, I still don't like the idea of settling down in places I find magical.
Is this how it is, the feelings of being scared?
