Why does it feel like we are living out the tragic fairy tales we used to be told as children?
Bedtime stories used to feel so safe, but now they make for living nightmares.
Everything I touch turns to gold, but they weigh me down, so much so that I am drowning in a sea of obsessive perfection – and yet I cannot even breathe nor swim.
Have I given too much of myself to an illusory aim?
Have I forgotten my roots and the things that really matter in the end?
Everything I touch turns to gold, but gold is not what I desire.
It was never the end; it was the means.
But now I have a golden palace and a broken heart.
Tell me, where do I go from here?

i stared out my window today
and the world outside looked the same
the same old trees, the same small birds
the same dusky sky strewn with clouds

like a painting frozen in time
seemingly constant and lasting
a safe and familiar ground

yet i cannot shake this feeling
that something has changed in some way

and the sun will not be as warm
and the stars won’t appear as bright
and the moon won’t be the same sight

the stochasticity of this world
brings souls together and then apart
an impermanence that bestows grief
yet offers meaning to our lives

wherever this divergence takes us
just know that this meeting was special
the universe conspired for this, so

when chance allows us to meet again
tell me your stories and i’ll share mine

and we will laugh like we used to laugh
and we will sing like we used to sing
and we will talk like we used to talk

moments like this come rarely to a wallflower
you can be sure they will treasure this forever