What cannot be undone

by sheer force of will, change it is said, can be achieved. The clay that can be moulded by will, however is not everything. At least not from where I perceive. An intense feeling of disbelief sets in when the mind attempts to reject it's own hypothesis of reality. I understand, I am but one of the people who feel the limits of life. There would be people who would give away anything to stretch the limit. And then come the ashes. The uncut edges from a node pulled away from the graph. These edges keep dangling and dangling edges, still lend support to the unrealistic broken mind. Akin to slow poison, slow numbing of thoughts also set in. The realisation of how big the world is, how small one's existence remains and how fast we hurtle into a different time. There are the obvious questions that one would ask, trying to put oneself in another's boots, trying to imagine. Imagine and believe, that imagination can be a way of believing and believing a way of living. I fight with myself everyday, fight away precious moments, dismissing them from my presence in the attempt to nab an elusive species of success whose identity I do not recollect. Yet, I persist. Amid the debris, I search for the building. One is never convinced of the limits of his powers. Willing to imagine but wanting to not. This powerful instrument of thought is what sets us apart, but I fear it often becomes the one to cause what cannot be told. I wish to look through the eyes of free men(as kwisatz says), look through their lives and through them I look back at me and see myself for what I am, for once without a preconceived notion.