.

It's a column. A column with seashells attached. Upon which two bloodied hands grip. Hands with hard fingertips. All powerful hands.
As they climb, plateau. Plateau it's not, word it is, express I will, express for you.
On this plateau you can rest and climb no further.
On this plateau you can either look down at what you've done or up at what you have not.
You can continue to climb. Till you put yourself a limit, retire, and rest forever.

First time i took your hand, it pulled hard. And i realised, either you were higher, trying to pull me up, or maybe i was. I climbed faster, but effortlessly, so did you.
As I sweated, you smiled at my riddled face.
You seemed sublime under the sun and rays above.

You were neither high nor low.
You were me. And I, you. One without knowing. Reflecting one another. Your effort did not count, for it was within my own. And my own, in yours. My tears were your smile and my smile, your tears.
We are one. Being. Climbing. Mirrored. Present. We feast on our tireless efforts and our personnal dissapointment.

N.am realizat decat acum... simtim la fel si ne deconectam de noi, credem mult despre celalalt si putin deapre noi. Suntem o fiinta cu o singura opinie.

Si doua perechi de maini.