One day I will be selling remedies for memories and songs for souls in my own little curiousity shop, just a turn into a corner of Greece’s small town, the bricks pure, and grander of them all is the clear blue sky that knows not boundaries; the sea filled with jewels shining like aquamarines, and I will be there, naked and sunbaked; a transcient. Only a tattoo of hope remains.
Or I will be strolling down the corridors of Paris, traipsing the Champ-Elysses, flirting with the French Patisser and receive an abundance of chocolates, my personal symbol of happiness, stuffed into my hands, and I saunter like I have the world backin’ me up, a curve on the face like no any other, flying chocolates into the air and hoping that whoever catches them will be in bliss, the pain made temporal.
I’m living in a city where poetry is considered a luxury, a place where words can never fill your stomach and love is but air which starves. I choke on the air I breathe everyday, filled with smoke, vengeance, the monday blues and friday hues, the petty complaints of ordinary civillans and insecurites about what their future will bring. What will my future bring? In school, an instituition which ought to develop but instead chains up, bringing me back to being a premature new born, just lacking the innocence of one. I write still, but of mindless formulas and definition of ‘gini coefficient’ which is futile when the gap between me and them widens every single minute, leaving me helpless and screaming, my voice sinking in the deep abyss. The moments creep. I weep now as on my bed I lie, extremely unprepared for the impending doom I will be facing, the regurgitation of memories which I have none, and a cloud of darkness looms.
Who shall dwell?
