The shape of clouds

We fall in love with the same face over and over again, every generation. The same half story about life, why we grow a certain way, who we become, what we like. we re-learn about ourselves like half digested meat, pre-thought out miracles that only make sense to those who make a living off of miracles. we live the old stories and we lie when we say we are bored with them. The same emotions they trick out of us, as if we are watching our untold selves fall back in love with the same man, wearing new eyes, a different skin. we live the same games that torture others, prove the same points, plan the same deaths and births, as the scale grows old.

We are odd like that, jumping boxes and rolling dice, thinking the winner is loved more than everyone else and yet so many winners are hated.

We love what we can't imagine, and we hate our own imagination as we die to re-create the selfs we could never be, over and over again, as the waves hit, as the endless possibilities amount themselves like a snake beside a river. We play with its teeth, hoping it bites.

There is an end to every dream says the wise, and yet every dream lives for eternity, going on and on in the sky for another to watch, to make a story out of its shape.