What’s Yours Remains Yours

This world, in its depths of sapphire blues and forest greens, shows up for you.

The pillow puffed clouds outline the crux of your imagination, that only you understand.

You begin to explain the illustration your eyes visualize, but words cannot verbally transpire from your lips.

In this silence, you begin to tremble. Words are just an illusion.

With all the truths and lies and confusion in between, you tell yourself words are made up. You don’t believe them anyway.

But in this sky-lit portrait, you realize you see something so vividly clear, almost translucent. Perhaps this is vulnerability, you presume.

The feeling sprints down to your bones as it glues to your flesh. It catches like wildfire through millions of branch-like veins, shooting straight to your rapidly beating heart, and still, no words arise. Not one.

You realize, maybe you don’t want to speak. You can’t share this, even if you tried. But you don’t feel selfish, not at all.

It’s for your almond-shaped eyes, it’s for your endless maze of a brain, it’s simply yours to keep. Yours to get lost in. Yours to never be found, by anyone but you.

Yours.

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"We're all just standing on piles of collective fiction" Read more articles from Nida on Thought Catalog.

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