A Prose With No Direction

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For the first time in a month, I step outside to greet the sun and escape my hideous mind.

Chirp.

Chirp.

Chirp.

The slight breeze kisses my cheeks and plays with my hair, the sounds of very life muffling the cries of the water.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I still hear the faucet's drip.

The sun is like a pot of gold in the sky, so valuable and yet so unattainable. I reach for it like how I reach for the stars late at night, pleading with God Almighty to take me under his wing and put me with his stars.

I plead with him to take me out of this misery.

But like always, he fails to answer my call.

My hand is so pale, so plain, so pathetic, against the sun's rays. I drop it down, embarrassed that I even compare such a thing against the mighty sun.

My feet lead me to a tree, so tall and mighty above. It is tall enough to touch the sun than compared to me. 

I wish I were a tree.

Because trees can reach heights I will never ever be able to reach.

I lean against the tree and slide down to sit.

Yes.

This is where I belong.

I lean my head against its trunk and look at the sky.

I belong in the dirt.

I sigh.

As I watch everyone I know soar above me.

I watch a pigeon fly by.

Even a fucking pigeon can reach heights I will never ever be able to reach.

You know, it's interesting, this—this nature that surrounds us all. They ultimately represent us, no? Or rather, we represent them.

For example, a tree is like those among us who follow the typical working norm. Like trees that inhabit majority of the land, majority of people invest their time and effort into finding a stable job to support them all the way through retirement.

Birds, however, are the creatures we aspire to be.

The creatures that soar above us all.

The creatures that soar higher than the trees.

The humans that go beyond the typical working norm.

The birds are those who made it big in Hollywood, who got scouted by an agent, who made millions in the business world.

Birds are the creatures who reach the heights many of us can never reach.

It must be nice to be a bird.

Something cold and slimy grazes my fingertips. Eyes wander to the soil and find a gross-ass, pink worm making love to my hand.

It's so pathetic, to be honest, how low this worm is compared to the trees and birds above. 

Just like me.

Like the worm who writhes in the dirtiest and lowest places of the world, I, too, stay in the dirt as I look dreamily at the sky above, wondering when I will grow wings and soar as well.

But I know I can never reach and touch the sky and the moon and the stars.

I can never reach the heights like a tree or even a fucking pigeon.

I can only writhe in my own filth.

.

.

.

.

.

And watch the birds soar.