It's strange how the matters of the heart can alter the functions of the brain. They drain your will and empty your energy; with synergy they stress your soul and damage your well-being. A picture may ruin your day, a message is all it takes.
As I approach this sentences, my mind reminds your scent and sees that nothing will change if the abyss still is. But still the heart is reluctant to accept, it's arrogant and selfish, and truly believes that it'll find its way.
Because the day will come, we hope for it; all of us, restless hearts that can't find a shore to moor. What's a shore but an open field of dreams. We come from the unforgiving ocean, only to find a place to rest, a place in which our heart may have a sense of peace and forget the abyss. This is, what we hope.
But hope is lacking, luck is lacking, like a black room where nothing's happening.
We can fight it, though. Our will feels inexistent but it's there, and we can muster it. It's hard to define what it is, but something keeps us going. Is it the heart? The one that doesn't give up? It’s the one that loses the battles and loses the wars. The one that puts itself out there and loses some more, because it's what it does, it's what it’s learned. It'll keep on going, and forever burn.