I am a dream still dreaming.
Sometimes I think about the Me who resides in my body, who instills all these thoughts in me and I rerun all of them like a nostalgic film over and over again until something new comes up and it is time to put an end to these cycles.
But do they really end?
The answer should be within me but it surprises me that even after owning all these thoughts I have no idea how they end or just disappear under the titles of routines in my daily life. Not to complicate things I wrote them in a journal decorated with withered flowers, old love letters and promises to get better.
Nevertheless those journals now lie secretly in the cabinet under the window wrapped in coffee brown texture, away from the sight of bystanders .
When I was five sitting in veranda at my grandparents whenever it rained there used to be a ritual to write your worries on paper turn it into a boat and let it float.
For rain used to be my favourite season. The paper boats taking away all my worries and bad gestures, the days I used to smile when the
Sound of rain hit the same window.
Now I am 23 and rains have long forgotten about the worries I put them under, fo now the thoughts of adult won't settle on papers. The poems of over thinking cross over the limits of patience. Sometimes I am happy and life seems easy but the next moment I am an unknown stranger.
And today as it rains again, I want to be forgiven for all the worries I put it under unknowingly which weren't even real.
And as it rains again, I open my journal to write another cycle which seems to long for the new season.
YOU ARE READING
Icarus and Sky
Non-FictionWhat was life meant to be if not a cycle of setting goals and having them destroy your souls. Or if not to fall in love and write poems. I certainly am trying to guess what's going on in mine and I hope it resonates with some of you.
