I have no grip, my limbs have all but severed ties with the rest of my being. I've let go.

If only it were that easy. To give up and to reconstruct, but everything comes at a price. Trade in your grief for an ounce of comfort in hopes of it lasting a lifetime. But a minute cannot be stretched into a mile and a mile cannot reach the depths of heaven...or even hell at the present. What we would give to exchange ways; to live how we see fit.

However, is there anything left for us once we've released what was close mindedly considered rightfully ours? In a way haven't we then given up our rights to life. We've relinquished our 'given paths' to live a life that quite possibly means nothing, but at the same time is everything to us. What is there to live for...?

Sovereignty is the goal, submission is the method. Inconsistent, absolutely. Genius, quite possibly. But given that inconsistency is all we seem to know, everything should fit into place, no questions asked...no expectations left.

But for future reference (if that is even deemed possible), lives, in terms of meaning, are longed for, respected, let go of, taken for granted, interrupted. But somehow life goes on, whether in the right hands of not is up to you.