Patience is like an old man waiting to die.
When moments no longer matter: And the seas remain blue, moving with the tide in rhythm. When the stars shine at night outside your reach, and the moon is spinning inside of your palm, and you can sit back eye to eye with it for a while. Or when the moon is shining in the distance, further away than you can reach, and you want to travel.
Patience is like a man tired of life. When a person has seen enough colors, compared enough contrast to get a clear picture, and painted it within their mind. It’s the picture within reach, but can’t be hold. And you want to touch it, but you fear ruining it.

Patience is like time wearing an old man down, beaten by its precursors, beating in an uneven rhythm. Carving a mark in the stones, slowly forcing remembrance upon their world. A place where they can’t reach, and you want to go. Like cigarettes in an ash-tray and none of them are yours.
Patience is when you have done what you can, but not enough.

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