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"It's your sleepy face I seek when the tangerine sunrays bath my skin at the dawn, breezes embrace the curves of the sheets and I end up hoping too much, again."
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Being in the vulnerable state he always feared, Yoongi stopped hoping his destiny would change its direction one day.
He only wanted a family, nothing else.
What about money? What about ambition? What about the sick imagination of living a luxury life without having the slightest idea of other people fighting for a better recognition? An artist could never think of breathing for a high class' modern fantasy; but for a reality that was painted with their dreams.
Did he hope too much?
Tracing on the snow tinted piano tiles; bringing life to the bronze strings of guiter; penning down hundreds of unfinished lyrics on the yellowish papers and pinning them on the walls; spending days and nights restlessly only for unveiling the melancholic tune he wanted hum quietly to himself - were all of these really not meant to be for him?
If only he could express the intense agony for not being able to chase his heartbeats and make others feel the same, none would had dared to block his path. But how cruel fate acted for him; not only he was forced to shut up, but also bottling up the pain in the frozen jar of memories.
There was a part of him which hoped none other than him would go through same stage he was stuck in, ever.
Rain splashed on the telephone booth endlessly; trapping Yoongi between the pool of his own tears.
