Real Life

Real life is in my eyes. There is no cowardice, no fear and no strangeness. If I believe that people are imperfect, then how could I love someone? I then could love only with an imperfect love. Could this be a part of the cowardice or the fear that I see is not in real life? Real life is living without a clock, without having to rush to another place, away from the place that I already am in. There is no drug to take its place, and it's not somewhere you can find in drunkeness. It is right there in the truth of the heart in the honesty of the eyes and the feeling of the touch. Real life is alone and has no companion, it gives its reward commensurate with the quality of your truth.