It is easily the most quintessential component that we require to sustain life, both metaphorically and physically. In this sea of troubled sensibility, often neglected as just another function, we often forget it’s purpose. Subject to sensitivity, we place all our weight and baggage upon it, expecting it to work as if there is nothing but wide space for it to operate, we never realize the amount of pressure we place upon it. Due to this factor, many risks of derailment occurs, too often without our knowledge, until it is too late for any reassurance of its survival. Many of greats, have fallen to this neglect, which is how poets, scholars pursuing figments of their imaginations and unrequited emotions come to be born. It is an inevitable disease that we are all guilty of spreading and being the carriers of this contagion. Never knowing that the person closest to us, can potentially be the next victim of this outbreak. Careless disregard is the real immoral villain in the dangerous game we all choose to participate in, at one time or another throughout our lifetime. It isn’t until we have lost everything, that we are free to do anything because when we realize that we have lost everything, only then do we reflect upon the situation at hand and try to make sense of this chaos. It could have been all avoided if more attention was placed on the alcove and the affects it is having on others.
When the motion within the soul is carried and a subtle yet noticeable sense of relief is eminent, and it blows right by, kissing the cheeks of your alcove, only then you realize this wind that blows so gently and so freely, smelling so fresh, is nothing but a trickery of one’s own emotions and by allowing this ghost to act out of own will, this allows the vulnerability of this individual to become greatly lowered. Allowing a false sense of security, the once mighty and fierce, becomes frail and weak. Due to the nectar this glorious alcove once produced becomes a congealing black liquid which resembles putrid waste, while the elegant and bountiful fruits once born off this alcove, become nothing more than rotting fruit barely clinging on to the vein like branches for dear life, before the excessive force of gravity playing it’s ruthless part and pulls this dying fruit, whose last wish is to breath one more breath of fresh air, before meeting the solid mass below with which marks the end of the life cycle of this fruit.