We are just unnourished frail bodies, overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias. Books filled with black letters, etching lurid images into our utmost dreams. Veering us from the big picture... the one we fail to paint ourselves. Our fists much too busy with fights, that we are bound to lose. Too occupied in line waiting, for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog. As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness... but we only enclose each other in small rooms with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be... Which letter could it be? To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts? They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations. There's no break for this lonely man, heaving every breathe of stale air into my overused lungs... Living in confined walls of flesh held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life? And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded books. The ones "watching every move we make", The ones not there when we take the wrong step. Which day will I be allowed to sleep in, through sun rise and sunset... through night and day... Laying forever in my cold bed.
Jagged stars cutting my bleeding brain, mistaking them for a stairway to heaven. The soft cumulus haven was too unearthly, hidden from all to see... Away from dry earth and mortal bodies. We turn to man-made bliss; contained in inch-long plastic bubbles, To fill the great gap between reality and fantasy.