Plants.

The mirror upheld,
The teller of truths without voice and mouth.
The cracked realities that hide behind smooth façades.

No lie is greater,
Than the lie we tell ourselves.
Than the one that nags using our very own voice.

Burdens born weighing heavily,
Testing our foundations and our roots,
Our morals, our values, the way we live and lived.

The speech of the words,
The portents of truth that lie within,
Wrapped in humour, carelessly or unspoken.

When the mind speaks,
Its voice booming, logic overflowing.
Thoughts intermingle in a swirl of choices and considerations.

In the solitude we exist,
In places where no one reside, we are true.
In places only we know, we become who we are.

Our feet keeps on trudging,
Moving places, from here to there, then and now.
But little do we know, our Self has already stood still, concrete.

A day, we reconvene,
Like a river meeting the sea,
All shall fall into place, in a place, to a place.

Blank

Nature is almost entirely against the existence of a vacuum.

Whenever a vacuum forms, it will be filled up, almost spontaneously.

A vacuum is hardly limited to the physical world, it is liquid in form.

It will always be filled up, some way or another.

But, what fills it up?

That is the vexing issue of vacuums.

There is so much in the world that there is too much to consider.