No longer trying to reflect, I live my life as it’s been served.
Unfair, beautiful and raw, it gives me joy and clips my wings.
I soar through moments filled with pain and crawl through the debris of hope.
I build unreal worthy dreams and sing mind-channeling sonnets.
I think sometimes that I should stop and go back. Or maybe not.
I long for comfort of a life, which didn’t really belong.
I missed my calling, or perhaps I found purpose. In myself.
Myself. My own. So unique.
Not dancing through but heading to a life comprised of simple things.
In mind, in soul, in heart I’m solid. But everything revolves between.
And as Lolita blinking fast I’m victimized in my perception.
Sometimes I live, sometimes I sleep. What’s more encouraging?
Perhaps, the slave and master need each other.
Perhaps, the grass is silky green below the snow in the winter.
Perhaps, it matters less, the way I feel and think and breath.
I spread my judgement just enough to know that I shouldn’t have.
I give an empty look at things. They matter less.
And the alternative to that, my thought. It tires of itself.
I rest awake. I waste asleep. I try to hide from interactions.
I wish I knew what’s next and why. I wish I feared more already.
And morning brings a new routine. Same gestures, trips, same reckless burdens.
And night brings peace. The end of floating.
There’s little difference between freefall and soaring through the sky.
Ask Superman. Or maybe Zarathustra.
I’ve read, I’ve written, not in vain, but I expected more from it.
Perhaps I got it and my greed won’t let me smile and enjoy.
Entitlement to life itself seems logical. But put it in perspective.
I’ll never stop.