distancing.
there’s a wall between me and the world. a homesickness. a familiar understanding between the isness of all things and myself, but in my heart, in my home, this humanness is deeply flawed.
I don’t belong here; midst intermittent laughter, commentaries and cacophonies of doing. I belong in a state where I am listening to meandering comets in their breakthroughs and grass blades in their breathing growth. I am an unparticipant in many eyes.
I find my purpose and leave. that breaks a few hearts. that allows mine to bleed much more, as I realise how deeply unsatisfying the triviality of ordinariness is. I write stories in my mind and manipulate reality so that it is infused with morality. you may call it apathy and recklessness. I call it art. I call it what I am here for.
I am most myself when I am alone, listening and writing stories in my head of what life wants to be like through me. I am the pause between brushstrokes and sentences. I am the nothingness that blends into silence just to remember its next breath.
I forgive that perhaps earth will never be my home. my ordeal is in waiting for the truth, when I am merely a lilting light in the sky. till then, I must not cease being who I am, and authentically so.
alas, every life leaves a wound behind.
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