A voracious world indeed they say. And it will be all black, white or grey; but I wouldn't dare to dream a rainbow in one lifetime. How many are there anyway? In one life time? Three? Four?
Maybe a couple more if you have swallowed hundred galleon liters of freedom in one breath; and are on a roller coaster that goes chasing all the sunshine the only star can offer to shine.
One lifetime- how long is it really? Not long enough to imagine yourself as a majestic monolith, standing tall among the great Stone Age. Yet, this heart demands to dream, even if some dreams can be shady. There are still many people left in this world who have a desire for darkness to envelop them and show them how shattered pieces flow in the stream of blood and tears.
Oblivion serves as a savior to those who fear to know the secret, to swallow the truth. The truth is that all the days are consuming us. It is a lunatic who is eating up our seconds and whispering to the howling wind- 'it's time to go'. And sometimes, it stabs you with a frail cold voice; 'there is no time at all'. There is indeed a tragic flaw somewhere within the starlight and the constellations of stardust. For if it wasn't for time, life wouldn't be against us, it would be with us. Alas, we are just outnumbered with the help of passing days and seconds becomes our last breath, our last definition of living.
See, love isn't lascivious and neither is life. It stands on its own meaning, nothing more, and nothing less. Love is part of life and life gave itself to its contagious intoxicant and blended to become one. Thus, sometimes you wouldn't know how to differentiate from the greater good. Evil isn't it? You ask, 'Where the dark dreamscapes went to?' There are many that solely fathom darkness. There are souls who don't surround themselves with such secrets. They are familiar with death even though they are alive. They die while living. A malevolent disease some would say. It is truly not always about the angels.
Sometimes is about the survivors. The dreamers who are warriors; they shed blood within them and sell dreams in the corner of their bizarre mind. A short life and the survivors say- it still a good life my friend.
They fought those combats in the same battle each day, to the extent that the war itself became void. Then suddenly, they remember, the sky above- looks up and a pinch of star dust falls upon their eyes. Hope revealed itself and once again they believed in something. Something can be anything. It can be vague as these words or as mysterious as death. Nonetheless that was all they needed to bring back a meaning to a moment.
Conclusion; A life tucked into a bottle of stolen stars- usually named as days by those simply breathing. The living, the dead, the survivors, the warriors, the dreamers and the ones that despise life itself- they have one thing in common. They all believe that the stars hold a reason. A reason that tells them that there might be one more day. One more day to believe in all the constellations of secrets in this universe. One more day to dance with the fallen poetry that sings from one tree to another. One more day to be under the shadow of the branches and let the wind rearrange the twigs onto the bodies that is so afraid to live. The chances are that the rainbows will not shine on your death bed, not all the stars would remember your name and the trails you have left will remain hidden. But those who dared to breathe in pain and still believed in love, those will be remembered deeply if not widely. And that is one life for you- merely a constellation of days.
A poetic prose.