Maybe this will turn out to be nothing more than my usual rambling of random things that only make sense in the end to me, but I’m at peace with that part of myself. The flower on the wall that goes unnoticed until words pour from my throat like an awkward mess that cannot be cleaned up. So they stay there in a pile, stepped over like a crack in the concrete you avoid at all costs because you don’t want to break something already so fragile. But delicate things aren’t always a breaking waiting to happen. Sometimes the strongest souls are the ones with quiet hearts, tender feet, tiny petals blown away with one whisper from the wind. But those souls… they are the beautiful ones. The strange, low key souls looking like a tiny candle burning until someone tries to blow it out. You can’t blow out a fire like that. Because the wind comes along to collect the rubble from the pile once built from words, and the beauty from those words is scattered across the world. It spreads like wildfire, those fragile things, and that’s why we have the stars to make wishes on; it all started from an awkward flower on the wall, and words that don’t always make sense, until you pick them up and understand the beauty that once looked like nothing but a random crack wishing to be a tiny candle burning.