quiet hopes

They are things which I’m always certain about.
Months passed and seasons changed, the heart is fixed and the mind is sure, how can it ever be questioned?
But some might say it’s stubborness clouded under the veil of foolish optimism.
Or blinded obsession, but can anyone ever see it?
This certainty will never kill me, unless it kills itself, which I’ll try again and again to save, again and again, again and again.

so i’ve learned to listen through silence

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