Our souls mingle, passing through each other's paths, we search for some cosmic love preasigned to us by a force too mysterious to comprehend in this life. We search for meaning, tearing ourselves apart and trying to put the pieces back together in the hope that we'll understand how our beating hearts work. If we don't, then others will do it for us. Broken and wounded, we hope our scars will serve as a map to lead us to that illusive spirit our souls have ached for since we first came to this planet. We want meaning, a purpose, in our lives where there is none. And in all honesty, there doesn't need one for us to be happy. And who knows maybe there isn't anything in the sky, but air. That doesn't mean we don't hope. Maybe at our cores we are truly selfish beings. That's doesn't mean we don't love. I've retold my life story so many times to people who I thought were the one it feels like I'm talking about someone else at this point. But, I'll keep trying. I'll love until it kills me and even then my love will go on. And though I've never truly been happy, I know when I do it will be in your arms. And it won't even matter that it had taken me so long to find you. I'm searching, because I haven't given up hope that you exist. And when I close my eyes I can hear the beat of your heart like a distant drum slowly chanting, "You are never alone. "