We turn with the clocks and turn to ash. Once more we scratch the dust off of our bones, once more we try to be more than simply human. Merely a thing turned self-reflective. A self recognizing a self. We shelter our souls, to be distilled by our minds to go to a sacred place. A wish for someday. At least something to wish for. How strange our I sometimes is and yet so familiar. A definition of normal was only ever made by our own standards. We never knew what it was to be human from the outside. The longest journey ever made was away from ourselves and yet we think space is infinite. And the space we live in, we fill with thoughts and prayers and dreams. Still we’re feeding the emptiness and harvest loneliness. How could we ever forget how it was, being a part of the whole?