I burn my lungs for fun. I tell myself there is nothing for me in rebirth, only in decay. When I was a kid, I would build airplanes out of Lego bricks, I would stand up on top of a chair, a thud and a clatter later, my plane's shattered and pieces are flowing on the floor. I knew it wouldn’t fly, I could calculate the gravity force on any mass when I was five, but still I hoped physics would make just this one exception, just for me. We all lie to ourselves, but only a truly desperate person starts to believe those lies.
I wake up the following morning and I’m no longer five; suddenly I’m seventeen. I’ve somehow been able to convince myself that time was something I could take, borrow and give. I tell you I’ll give you all the time that I have, like that’s actually mine. You politely decline, telling me that yes, we are two good people, but yes, we only ever manage to bring the bad out of each other. The look on your face, it is as if space-time exists only in a universe we declared our own and now it is doomsday but nobody cares because nobody’s alive to tell.
When the person that keeps you grounded decides to let go or alternatively loses anything resembling balance, you don’t launch like a rocket ship into space, instead you freefall into a destiny we all know, an end we’re all familiar with: the sequel for life—or so I’d hope, the stillness and the solitude that grace death. So what if you lose your breath and no one’s there to catch it? You recollect yourself, rearrange untruths until they become facts that boom and bloom sanctity in sanctuary for a livelihood or a few.
The only two feelings that can possess a being are loneliness and hope. I’m helpless and I'm plagued by them both. I pray that either one is strong enough to end the other. Prayer can’t help the infidel. So I stand on my tiptoes, on the padded seat of a chair; my glare to the loneliness, my back to the hope, thinking to myself, this is no way to go live. There is no way I’m living what’s left of my life like this: lost and losing it, and losing big chunks of myself with every step I take, with every mistake I make. I’m hiding when I just want to be found, be it by you or by my own. I have stopped caring a long time ago, back when I learned that it was too late for me to find a flaw in Newton’s law of universal gravitation.
I wake up the following morning and I’m no longer five; suddenly I’m seventeen. I’ve somehow been able to convince myself that time was something I could take, borrow and give. I tell you I’ll give you all the time that I have, like that’s actually mine. You politely decline, telling me that yes, we are two good people, but yes, we only ever manage to bring the bad out of each other. The look on your face, it is as if space-time exists only in a universe we declared our own and now it is doomsday but nobody cares because nobody’s alive to tell.
When the person that keeps you grounded decides to let go or alternatively loses anything resembling balance, you don’t launch like a rocket ship into space, instead you freefall into a destiny we all know, an end we’re all familiar with: the sequel for life—or so I’d hope, the stillness and the solitude that grace death. So what if you lose your breath and no one’s there to catch it? You recollect yourself, rearrange untruths until they become facts that boom and bloom sanctity in sanctuary for a livelihood or a few.
The only two feelings that can possess a being are loneliness and hope. I’m helpless and I'm plagued by them both. I pray that either one is strong enough to end the other. Prayer can’t help the infidel. So I stand on my tiptoes, on the padded seat of a chair; my glare to the loneliness, my back to the hope, thinking to myself, this is no way to go live. There is no way I’m living what’s left of my life like this: lost and losing it, and losing big chunks of myself with every step I take, with every mistake I make. I’m hiding when I just want to be found, be it by you or by my own. I have stopped caring a long time ago, back when I learned that it was too late for me to find a flaw in Newton’s law of universal gravitation.
