Magnificent. Ficticious. Toxic waste. Emotions. Forgetting. Believeing. Crying...
I am bewildered at how nonfiction is stranger than fiction.
Emptiness can fill one's life, misery can sollow another's.
One who laughs now will suffer crying in the end.
The very end, the dark, terrifiying end.
Yet a man who's life has an obsticle see's life through its true form.
He who cannot see or hear soaks in every one of his moments.
He who cannot understand or even move adores life in its most precious ways.
It's funny how us normal folk pout and rage at every negative thing that happens to us.
Teenager's seem to hate their lives when they're not allowed to go to a party or the mall.
To the man with a disability and the man with a good perspective, what good is new�accessories or a couple of drinks?
Simply strolling in the park is a warming way of spending his time.
For the sky to to him is not just a light blue ceiling over us, but a wide open window to the universe surrounding us.
For the sun is not�a enormous gas star, but a welcoming, friendly natural pleasure simply waking up the Earth majestically.
For the birds are not winged animals that tweet, but are living, breathing creatures like you and I, �the signature of the outdoors' pride.
For the trees and grasses are not green things that decorate the world, but are the providers of life to us, beautiful as they softly sway with the light breeze.
Life's true form is not always seen or interpreted, but it is there.
No one knows how or why, but it is there.