Breathing is an art

Colliding thoughts barrel through my brain. Questions of life, spirit, and pain, love, happiness, and evolution. Theories spill out as if formulated by prophets, and poured from the rolling waves of black sky and neon stars, into my dreams. Swirling with uncertainty and inquisition, I choose to slip deeper into the infinite. Thriving on the science of real living, being alive. Testing each drop of time's elasticity, breathing is an art. Lying down searching the past for answers of tomorrow, I am thirsty. Time, seasons, days, hours, was I there? Was I living? Memories just headstones for moments that have passed, respect them, but know they have gone. The fluid of life is in constant motion, flowing into us, we wash through it, then out. Dry our skins return to the earth. Our essence a vapor of creation, is released. Gliding through dimensions of immeasurable time, space, and wisdom, It never stops.