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?
Living far away from home was never the fairy tale I imagined it to be. I obsessively pursued perfection, breaking barriers upon barriers, but ultimately forgetting those things that really matter in the end - the primal cause for this relentless drive. Inspired by my dad's illness, this piece is an expression of my frustration for running after things, now seemingly trivial, while the sands of time pass by quickly back home. I have to remind myself that my walk of life is just a means - it is definitely not the end.
