Some times in life you will come to a place that is so unfamiliar, so uncomfortable, to memories it’s a dreadful place filled with misery, to a life that’s ended it’s never at peace. To a restless Soul that was sold for gold to change a straw man’s destiny and in exchange it returns agony. For what Breath took in as Truth, Toughs repeats as deceit. From what Eye's saw as Friend, Ears hears only voices of Enemies. Often Thought contemplates on Action’s past mistakes, and reason withholds the knowledge of what purpose buried inside of us. It’s not until we’re at this place that hate has power enough to replace our Trials for Lessons, and our Sins with Blessings. But only if we let the Darkness night becomes our brightest day. Count our fleeing monuments as if time doesn’t own shit. Fill those empty spaces with joy filled faces. Invoke the reflection in the Mirror to reveal the One that was Deor[1]to us.
[1] Deor" (or "The Lament of Deor") is an Old English poem found in the late 10th century collection[1] the Exeter Book
