near about half past seven every day, an airplane passes by through the southwest. a little flickering orb is all I can see, just a split-second journey. I think about the people who are travelling and I think about people in general. somedays I silently weep because people reduce themselves to mere statistics, a number and they're no longer a story — their humanity no longer theirs. most of the days, I look at the airplane and let it pass, not today, the questions brewing in the vaults don't allow me to be a mere spectator.
on certain days, like today, I view myself as a story, a person and I let myself crumble. I've carried a never-ending ache, a longing since childhood to atleast know my story, know myself and not merely go on. I wonder if you're scared like me as well, are you too a mess? wanting to relive each day in your head again, no matter how much it weighs, no matter how much it costs? mostly, though it'll be unlikely to believe, I'm at a lost of words because how can I sum up and pen down, feel what I am feeling when every passing second is a memory yet every moment a goodbye. yet, I spill the ink, rush my hands through the paper in a hurry to capture all that I can, to make the paper drink in my fears, my hopes - my feelings.
