I’m scared my existence will pass me by.
That I will fall asleep, wake up in a dream and never remember to slip into reality again.
Things are just so trivial to me. I try to care, to care about grades, and clothes, and other tangible things. But it doesn’t happen and, when it does, it is with much difficulty.
I laugh when I realized I just forgot a pen to my final exam. And laugh at much more. Everything is absurd, everything is a joke, a badly narrated dream; or a beautifully wired delusion? Not sure.
I am too many people also, so I hold the responsibility to live out their dreams. The dreams of all these people in me. One wants to become a writer, the other, an artist. And the one who wants to remain a child, what to do?
I face myself in that deep wine bottle, play around with the shapes the fluid forms, and dance around the scent of its contained truths.
To live more? To live… louder?
To sing a more popular song? A catchier song, lyrics that they will all know — and sing along.
Or to continuing dreaming to silence? Silence only I can hear, and enjoy, and fold it and carry it with me wherever I go.
What I would give for a quieter life, a life to suit the me inside. (or the me I think I know)
The life that resembled a forever blank canvas, filled with space for improvisation. A welcoming canvas, so I could paint with my fingers without having to wash them off.
What I would give.
(but that’s not the path the gods have chosen)