Something nice, something borrowed, something that you have once owned. Something that defines you and destroys you, something that burns, something that erases, creates, gives birth and adjusts everything. Something like you, like me, or us together, that flows with the wind and blows with the waves, something chaotic, hard to describe with simple words or be captured in a regular frame. Something that some people would call "magic", a word that I have stopped using when I realized that growing up would never allow me to keep any concept related to surrealism.
I got my notebook and a piece of blank paper, burnt everything and watched the ashes dissolving in a glass of water. As I took as many breaths as I could, thick dust was filling my lungs, as a constant reminder of my "idea of life", and I tried to swallow my pride, but I gagged and had to leave it where it was. Adulthood is a place for boring people, some would say, and I should agree with them, but since Neverland is nowhere to be found, we shall consume ourselves in the emptiness of these surroundings.
All my seasons have faded, I compressed them in a book named "Memoirs", it is now covered with dust as it sat for too long on the shelves, in my room.
Exactly when I needed the most it appeared, it never went away, he kept his promise, I only wish I could have kept mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment