She believes the human lives for the story.
The story of who they were, who they are, who they want to be and who doubted them as they still believed in well, the story of . . . them. . . of her…of you.
She ponders wishing on stars in the definition of labels.
Believing in grimacing and taking on the TIME as hers.
Thinking she was given IT, time, to invest in her life.
She sees now that you are the giving of nothing.
Nothing beyond the limits set before you, by others and the little they believed of themselves.
Which was fed by others who believed even less in themselves…and so on…
So.
She questions.
Questioning who she thought she was, who she thinks she is.
Questioning the dream created during a time of escape and survival.
Questioning even, the agreement of ink in relaying speech.
Agreed upon pronunciation.
Questioning, for even speech, same as God and Jesus and lack there of, was birthed by humans.
Created and passed on for the purpose of , what else but, a STORY.
allesor 