To work on idea is done with my fingers here. The cool air a friend and birds talking. You worry that house spent shall pass with little illumination. Looking at problems you sieve them down to simple additions. Removing a crutch can fall you if you are not ready. With your limbs healed you could run again, or even walk a hall of the sights. Though here in a broken heart lays the reason for your endurance of mistakes.
A self help is no corny twist upon a catch phrase. If you clear your sorrows it can only be justly. You cannot bring back the dead, only continue to live. Events happen none the less without knowledge or anticipation. For really your favorite place is a blanket, a dreamy thought passing through. To shut off and declare weakness to the land of nod.
So as I clamber down the consciousness of now, I see myself waking to habit. The strong ego that it is stales my smile. I wish for release from static. The burden of a chair. I call upon the strangest idea that I can chance a revival of that child once loved. I research my superficial thoughts into boxes. Here I core out a simple decision that maybe if I could only sacrifice my enjoyment I could maintain a branch to grow again. Without blindness.