crumble.

witnesses of history. will any of this matter? will all of our small actions come together to form an era worth noting? worth writing about? who will study our why's when we have all passed? time itself is endless, and our generation is accumulating perspectives and angles. too many. at what point do we define ourselves as an age? when can we finally say that we have reached tomorrow? the new world. i have counted stars from the wet grass, and am aware that i am of no consequence. falling short of ideological triggers, or the massive buttons of revolution, all we have left is to be original. this is my realism, my optimism. i can live the life that countless have lived before me, but i will string thoughts together in an entirely unique way. words, boggling in their familiarity, yet sucking out frail emotions that most people are afraid of. think different. be different. count the stars in your own head.