" You start with a darkness to move through
but sometimes the darkness moves through you.”
― Dean Young
In observance of the cosmos of life, everything that is born must also die. There're galaxies out there longing for your touch. And here we're wrapped in sheets, counting time, hearing our words echo in empty halls and back in our ears. Men drinking too much and women breaking glasses. Lovers sleeping on the same bed but having nothing to speak. Tears falling like a lost waterfall on the hands of those who're already drenched in their fears. Dreams that carry nightmares. Tongues that couldn't speak.
Darkness settled into corners and crevices beyond the moon's touch and here we're wishing we'd have power over something we never wanted. People running after lions and all they do for living is to survive. Reflections all looking the same, a soul so hard to feed; chewing bubble gums and biting nails. Searching endlessly for light in a pitch black room, weather worn skin cracks, staring out the bay window at the old house but not noticing abandoned coffee cups on the window sill, heartbeat so synced to the movement of the tide but unable to breathe.
The ocean air used to be fragrant and heavy, and moonlight pierced the forest canopy in patches. The pale cerulean sky is looking for its lost hue. Noises louder than the sound but still inaudible to ears. Selling tears just to feel the happiness of a dying heart. Buying books not to read. Touching the wounds again and again just to feel the blood running through the veins. Caressing heartbreaks with dead neurons. Drinking whiskey in tea-cups, looking frantically in all downward directions, trying to see a trace, a telltale puff of smoke in the gathering dusk.
With my honest illusions, I could say reality is slipping out from the cracks of our bare skin. We still don't remember how we got here? We have keys but maps are lost, treasure to bury but no one to find, love to give but nobody to keep, memories to make but no one to remember. We're alloyed, we're not true to ourselves. On the broader picture, we're at war with everything but perhaps life was more than just conquests. In a world like this, never trust a survivor unless you know what he did to stay alive because I've seen heroes writing poems with their enemies.
How sad it feels when the terror in your voice shakes the fear in your eyes, my hands shiver as I write these lines that I'm a part of it all. Maybe there's a lot of happiness left in this world, I do believe. But just imagine how many details I'd have missed If I'd be just happy.
“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.”
― Rumi
