we all fall down.

So will you scatter yourself all over the world, in all the places you've ever wanted to be? In all the places you loved? In the air you breathed and the lives you've lived. Will you let the world reuse you as a spec in the never ending, ever-stretching grind of life. As dust, in view of something else.

With all the others who have agreed to be the same -- to all the romantics who thought that they could still be a part of something meaningful even when they couldn't. One of the dreamers living in a dream, living and not living. Who refuse to be boxed, buried, caged. 

Be stepped on by a thousand different people in a thousand different places over thousands and thousands of years. And feel nothing. Be a part of someone's life, and never meet know understand. Watching and not watching, blind and blinkless existence of something that isn't and is. To be part of a memory, and then a chocolate box of memories, and then a scrapbook, and then a tree. Remembered and not remembered. But growing. 

Let the wind blow through you, finally.