you are a stuffed doll sitting on the windowsill watching passers-by. your mind feels handicapped in a universe of motion. so full of thoughts that your lungs barely have room for air. not enough fuel to shoulder through the walls in your path but you still have the strength to turn and run away. its funny because your notebooks carry pretty words of sunsets and beauty when the days are mostly just grey. here there is only one sunset a day; you spend most of the time waiting for the next one.
clouds are not soft and fluffy to touch; they do not taste like cotton candy and eating them will not give you invisible wings. they are cold and wet and slip past your fingers. you thought clouds housed kingdoms and angels but they are just mountains of gas. sometimes they drip onto your hair and cling to your skin. sliding down your throat on a post-rainy morning. not all dawns make the sky blush.
how foolish to blindly trust in the stars — better to let your eyes adjust to the dark, and be grateful whenever light passes by.
26.6.18
