My meaning of life

Laying on nature’s floor, breathing in fresh air, feeling the pollinated breeze over my face, being next to the green plants and trees, accompanied by bugs and bees
Letting time pass by, fast or slow, with the fluctuating clouds above
I don’t care.
This is my meaning of life.

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Is this the meaning of everything?

There’s something innate within us that’s been budding since we’ve existed. Since the moment one cell was dived into two.

Gazing at you is like speaking an ancient language of the animals. It’s like the dance of a peacock with its feathers flared. It’s interpretation only you understand. My eyes possessed by you, the sparkle in yours shines through, makes the rest of space around me empty, dark. Nothing else matters but you, nothing else comes close to you. I live to have your arms embrace me, to give me the reason for living. I’m alive when you’re near, I carry your spirit when you’re far; otherwise there is no purpose to this life. There’d be no blooms; flowers grow from seeds. There’d be no mountains, rocks, seas, they’re all bound, so tight, by bonds we cannot see. This is the bond I’m talking about my love, which I can’t explain no matter how much I write or try to decipher through some metaphors, or think through silently. It’s nonsense. There’s no answer. This is my obsession. This hunger, this yearning of giving love and to receive it wholly, yet knowing that it can never be complete. This process that has no ultimate end. This falling into an endless well with no bottom. Just like the continuum of time, with no beginning and no end, like the movement of energy– this reality that I can never completely have you nor can you have me, no matter how much we are bound to each other by things that connects us, or by bodies that tangle us, this pain, this excitement, this curiosity. This is what makes me breathe, keeps me going, makes the world spinning, makes the stars shining, the universe expanding. Everything that is this vast, morphed inside of you, so many questions and the answers—a mere reflection, in your eyes.

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