quarters in the urinal

of course it would seem to get to anything of value we have to wade through piss. the stains that never leave us, reeking of the filth we end up going through to get it. and in the end we'll remember how we got what we wanted instead of what we ended up with anyways.

but the story goes on. the treasure remains worth the wait. worth the fuss. worth the shit. the unrequited nature of it all, descending upon us like spirit looking for an empty vessel. we WILL have it, but long before it becomes something we can touch, we'll recognize and know it always had us first.

we ride abandoned trails, announcing our departure to no one, and expecting no greeting upon the place in which we'll arrive. destined and true, it won't have to be like the beginning or middle of the book. and the end is something we've all read, but have never experienced. no one will ever know what it's really like because no one will ever be us.

the clouds of design sprinkling down the remnants of something purely authentic and genuine, leaving the questions to be answered for a time when no one is asking. whatever broken battered pieces we carry with us, we'll be allowed to see how they've been refined as they come together in perfect unison, every cracked filled with every bruise received.

what value and truth then will we know, after willing ourselves to take upon the sacrifice and surrender of what we righteously desired. our monetary expense given purpose just by being sought after in the darkest of places. we can't be spent if we don't allow ourselves to be found.