I am not growing older.
Engorged with thousands episodes of experience, I continue to live submerged in chaos.
I remain suspended in confusion.
There are days in which I lay in bed discouraged of how irrelevant I am. To everything.
My paths lead me to oceans, to cities glaring out into the never ending waters. That is why I probably never liked mountains. The sense of finality I got from reaching the top. The disarming questions: Now what? Where to from here? So I go on about my circular life.
Entangled in metal and meat. In vague answers to questions I`m not entirely sure I understand. There is so much I do not understand. And it all flows out of me, like a haemorrhage of uncertainly.
but I exist, in my own absent manner. Always in the sky, just beneath the clouds. On roofs. Watching armies of others like myself.
Sometimes I sleep. And my breath lets out my soul, to wander. And it goes to so many places. And it stays there for days on end, wanting to move away from me.
During this time, I wake up empty each day. And I go to work and I laugh and say things I don`t mean. Everything without an echo of doubt in my voice. I am convinced that I am well without it.
And when I feel that I have fixed myself, I hear it soaring in the air. Floating on seagull wings. On the sound of waves crashing to the shore. It brings with it fiery sunsets and mornings of beautiful silence. My soul, the animal that writes poetry on the inner walls of my chest. The force that keeps me in the rain some nights, waiting for something that only it knows what it is.
So we fall asleep frequently, in the morning light, me and him, both dreaming of our own different worlds. It of tattoos that shine in the sun, of eyes that glare back at us from books or windows. Of liquor that warms the mind and leaves the skin less tense. Turquoise buildings and myriads of orchards of sound. And I...I dream of not getting ill. Of not being pathetic. Not being forgotten.
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