living, all too living

When a writer reads his own previous work,
Sometimes he doesn’t always completely grasps the meaning he himself attached to it,
Sometimes he does, sometimes he do not.
What he really sees is the difference between the person he was and the person he has become,
And on the metrics of the world, has he improvised, or has he degraded.
No matter the change, to him, he is just more enlightened than he was before,
For better or for worse, he knows more than he did,Not to mention had also forgotten things, unintentionally,Devoid of the consideration of their future use.

And thinking of that,
It struck to me that same do happen with everybody,
In our everyday life, when we are exposed to the stuff we made before, and the stark realization of the difference of the person who made it from the person we are now.
There comes a time in every one’s life,
In the ones who read and in the ones who write,
Or in the ones who consume it, alright.
When once in a while they revisit the things they consumed before,
By consume, I mean read, see, hear or understood before.
That piece of text, image, sound or theory stays exactly as it was before, when they first met,
But for some reason it doesn’t feel the same, like the way it did before.

For times have changed and so have they,

And the way they interpret it has changed a lot too.
But they may nag and they may disagree,
That Is right to some extent and wrong to some degree,
Because he may have learned a thing or two, but also forgotten some of them.
And this simple fact is received by every being differently,Be it the maker or the user it maybe,
Maybe one day, I will read this text and see the difference,
And feel it open to interpretation, and maybe I will become wiser than I am now,
But still agree,F
or the habit that I learned to never wanting to be wrong,
Because wrong is wrong and right is right.
Or maybe I will take with a grain of salt, to what I now disagree,
That I might have been wrong a while ago,
And what was right and what was wrong,  I didn’t know,
And I may doubt and I may cringe,
For what is wrong and what is right.
For I have been taught to be right all the time,
And If I did any wrong, forgive me my friend,
For I meant no harm,
Just a beautiful time, for you and me, all along,
For I believed in it a while ago,
And life is too short to be sure about everything.
And I took a leap of faith and so should you,
Before you run out of the fuel to do so,
And maybe I will be dead till then,
And maybe I will never disagree,
But then again a part of me will breathe again, through someone’s else body,
And will read it to know, what the men before thought,
And maybe something will resonate with you,
And maybe something might not,
But that’s not for me to wonder,
for everything’s not for everyone,
Like the seas are for sailors and countryside for countrymen,
And magic is for the magicians, and music for musicians,
And you may not be something completely, or absolutely,
But a part of you can still feel the music,
And part of you love the seas, and part of you love the skies,
You may not be a sailor, but you are still an adventurer of the life,
You may feel the emotions of long before, again,
When this was being written,
And when I wrote it alone.
After we are gone, these thoughts may born again in someone’s mind,
to just smile and disagree with themselves, or to agree to disagree.
Or they may just feel all the same, for thoughts can travel through time,
And if you believe in magic, if you really do,
You are more than mere flesh,
you are memories, thoughts and actions that you do,
Those can be immortal, if you want them too.

But you should always remember no one’s born again in the same flesh and bone,
And we should be open for people to guess us, and judge if they like,
And they mean no harm, and neither do we,
Because sometimes you are wrong and sometimes you are right,
For someone you are wrong, and for someone alright,
because we will someday, be long gone,
In the same way will all those arrive will be,
No matter what they do, people will come and people will go,
All that will remain will be the stories that are told,
which hit the hearts of someone, if somehow, yeah, they do.


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