Intertwined

Time is a curse.

It binds everything to its own unique skewed concept.

That no matter how free you feel, or the liberation you are currently basking in, you are still in a never-ending cage, forever trapped inside an intangible notion.

You are cursed by eons immemorial. From the very inception of nothingness, you are being pushed to do things that might be impossible to do at first thought.

It was at its lowest, burgeoning as the seconds tick, minutes passed, and hours tock. The result is inevitable.

But once in a while, certain individuals call upon a fragmented perchance powered by luck and faith called a miracle.

Miracles once encountered, will forever leave stain.

Miracles are the sole reason this story was born and made to be told.

Time is a curse.

A shackle that limits the possibility to just impossibility.

Those times I spend with you, were and will always be the most precious thing in my measly short tiny fragment of life.

How great a magician God is? He made everything reasonable yet unreasonable.

We are made to believe that this thing should suffice.

In intersections of fate, we met. That single moment is given to us. Adequate and liminal. In need of much, not just a pinch but a pint.

A certain span that will be washed ashore in hundreds of billions of the same story, predestined to be forgotten.

Miracles are the sole reason this story exists and were revealed to the world.

Miracle, we are here right now, are you watching?

Time is a curse.

One should be careful of illusions. Be able to distinguish realities and ones that are perceived as realities. If not astute, they can be the reality you're already living.

Genuine chuckles were made by a voice neither masculine nor feminine, threading a fine line of uncertainties.

The illusion told the magician, "Why to bother be known when in annals of yore and the will of the shore want you as nothing?"

The magician looks at the signage of the shop they are currently in, using the windows across the street. Rain is pouring heavily, and people outside are eager to find shelter to shield them from the cold water. Reminding them why this place is called the Capital of Swans.

"Plato's Tea Time" is a place and time for a wise man to think. Many are here to enjoy the brew, but only a few were here to have the time to think.

He drank the entirety of the cup's content, then reminisced the memories he made, and answered.

"Psych's game occurs in the heart, not the mind. For mind might forget, but heart yearns."

Both looked outside. Uncertainty is etched on the face of the illusion, while hope beams in the eyes of the magician.

Miracles are the sole reason this story exists and were revealed to the world.

Miracle, we are here right now, are you watching?

My Miracle, my intersection intertwined amidst the junctions of life, a perchance full of luck and uncertainty, my only saving grace.

"Thine soul, humbly pleading to be forever in your embrace." A whisper that was lost in the sound of the lake.

Time is a curse...