We always try to fly away. To spread 'wings', an ideal that every man and women possess. We dream of a future where there are no more limits. But there are many of them indeed and sadly, their origin is usually our own hearts. Comfort, we revel in them. Being caressed by soft emotions and security. The look on his eyes. The monthly wages. The feeling of our skin in bed, covered and sheltered by soft linens and the freedom of time. Where we let go, but not completely as we sleep by imagining tomorrow and wake by regretting yesterday.
There I was, hoping and wandering foolishly in an illusion of a world that had more comfort. More love and realising the reality was a luxurious torture. I breathe to sleep at night and I sleep to breathe for a desired tomorrow. That so far had no progress. Because I am still here, under these walls and bricks. Tucked between the sheets and anxieties.
As time sing to me a lullaby, to drift me further into mortality. Until I wake at 9.30 PM, aged 60 and regretting my life by the foot of the bed. All alone with sad, abandoned dreams.
when words are laced with emotions
