This Was Written On A White Wall

What is empty? What is nothing? What is left to be said when all is over? What is the sound of the air in the space between your words? What happens in sleep, in a grassland in your brain? What is beautiful there, and what is beautiful here? Who knows what happiness is? Is there such a thing as a dictionary? Am I here or am I part of a painting hanging in the walls of unknown eternity? When a point of time is as beautiful from the view that our concept of time gives us. The people have feet, and they walk in an endless pursuit of figuring out what to pursue. More so ever, I feel like I’m lost in a garden filled with the smell of the ocean under a flowering lemon tree in a place the I do not exists. Maybe I will stay, maybe I will go back, but right now, this moment is infinite, because it is where I live, and nothing else matters because the world you see comes from no place other than the inside of your brain. You gave birth to your reality-you baked it, and everything you see is your own creation. There are colors that you will see, those you will not, but they are all ropes from the sky for you to climb.