Tangled.

Creatures of yearning have the proclivity to embrace things that they can’t reach, out of a common interest in the untouchables. Like a moth drawn to the fire, or Icarus flying too close to the sun, it calls to them like the early hymn in a lonely, forgotten night. Insatiable as it seems, there is always a pull of curiosity in things of magnitude.

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There it is, in the middle of nowhere, shining like a beacon of hope. It flickers, calling and whispering for the careless and lost. It’s the sadness within that makes it cling to another’s existence, and in the process call out louder until the hymn becomes unbearable. In an attempt to save one’s sanity, it holds onto the grandeur, expecting that it will be its ultimate savior. Its reliance, no matter how noble, is misplaced.

With the coil of trepidation and restraint within its embers, everything appears magnified. Like the silent murmurs of nostalgia, one is given the choice of what he will become. It may take the form of a bird, or of fire, or of a diamond. It may be foregone and ethereal or tangible and glaring. It may be now or forever.

Until the choice is made, one is entangled in the web of complexities and false promises. And nothing stays the same.