And I find myself in a situation I’ve never been before, its incidental. I can’t help to reminisce about the things that led to this, the tiny things that fell into place for it to happen. I knew where I was getting myself into. It’s a riddle I came across.
And I felt intrigued, so I went ahead to try and solve it. But logic and rationality rule this riddle, and I myself am made of mystical and intricate thoughts. I might be a little too much of a savage in comparison, not hoaxy but candid, and willingly. So I tend to flow.
And flowing is good; emancipating yourself from gravity and wandering to life itself, to the flashy and mischievous. But it makes it all that much puzzling, and mesmerizing even.
And I can’t fully grasp this riddle. It’s conflictive, antagonistic to what makes the wholesome of my psych; and it only makes sense that the longer I wait, the more alluring it all gets.
And I can’t seem to find any answers. So I still don’t know if I was meant to solve it.
And I lay here, in between words and thoughts and songs and cigarettes, hoping my rowdy, scruffy self won’t be too much for it to take. Hoping it wont startle with its own conception.
And I still can't find any answers. So I still don’t know if I was meant to solve you.