How peculiar to know you wrote the end before the beginning.
Like a bubble floating carefree in the air, absent of regard,
Unaware it will soon burst into the atmosphere.
Floating on a bubble, so fresh, so clean.
All shiny, symmetrical, balanced, soap in perfect form, the bubble.
Realizing each day of ones life slips by one into another as the years fly by like a temporary bubble.
I would rather be a tree then a bubble.
As a tree I could generate oxygen instead of being dependent upon it.
If I were a tree I could be viable and useful even in death.
As a tree you give protection and comfort and become a lifelong friend.
As a bubble you are short lived and transparent.
Your very dependent on the wind.
Floating without purpose you escalate into the eclipse of lost tangibility.
You escalate to the promise of end before the beginning has even been written.
Live your life as a tree, not a bubble.
the beginnin or the end?