The Walls Are Gone

A new set of literary walls have been destroyed by a wrecking ball in the form of a muse. This muse, whose writing is so expressive that one might say that a piece of her life is posted in her words every time she writes a personal passage, inspires me to play with words as if they were mere toys for my amusement.
The ironic matter within this scenario is that despite the demolition of these walls and my newfound giddiness about words, I know nothing. My sight is still predominantly subfusc. What person knows? Perhaps the destruction of these boundaries is completely insignificant in this universe that is as opaque as a thick cream. Regardless, the pleasure I hold within my discovery of this new world of abstract play is enough to give it significance to me. In the end, what is more important? Personal significance or universal significance? I say that to withhold a life filled with pleasure and glee, personal significance must be put before all other things big or small. If this is done, then one's life, however confusing it may be, will fill with meaning, and all the troubles lurking within that life will become bearable, and will slowly fill with more and more color.
I adore language.