The long time, and the long way —
but all I feel has passed in a few short hours;
all is clear, yet forgetting turns melancholic,
and still I walk, instead of tempting loneliness.
Instead of tagging the best moments of life,
all I hold is a restless struggle with myself;
it began with the start, toward an end —
but with the endless journey of arguments,
day after day passes, like an inheritance.
As I move far from my shadow,
it only seems to close on me more each time;
the moment of standing comes with the grave of a lamb,
and life ends with the sorrow of all left undone.
Gestures only lead somewhere deeply lost,
but the quest is to lose yourself;
though it gives way to a better tomorrow,
the question is — what is worse than satisfaction?
The more you try to answer, every time,
you weave another knot of paranoia.
I know it would never end like this;
but what I want to know is — if this is not the end,
then what is it, and where?
A lone way, shredding itself apart,
though the steps felt firm as a shell;
descending, yet into the tomb —
forward was the only step down.
Every attempt held a nightmare for the night,
lugged with fears, and hidden away;
but when thoughts dive into time,
all they perceive is a lie.
Yet as the smoke clears off the timeline,
life is beautiful as a single drop of time —
far too little to spill it on hate;
just add more love to every space.
Life will perish, but not the thought;
and the journey of hate is the sorrow of the soul.
Everything will pass, but the quest will last —
was it me, chasing every thought?
Far, but not farther;
near, but no nearer than my thoughts.
Every lonely night, I wonder at the wandering moon —
but the question is: where are you, my soul?
At times, I too fear the distance,
broader than any other memory;
harder it is to feel, like any rock —
yet everything is like a flowing river.
A pebble, and a trembling heart,
both adrift in a spring of flowing tears,
from end to end — but this journey will never last.
I am travelling all night for your return,
like the moon that falls only to rise above the horizon,
wrapped all around in clouds of love —
but life is not a question of mine alone.
Once, I played with toys;
now I am a toy for others.
I loved diving into the mud;
now I am scared of every colour.
Life was as easy as a video game —
and all I do now is cry;
I lost more of myself as I grew up.
It was all parties and joy;
now it all shows the odds against you.
The sleepless night before the day of the trip
turned to sleeplessness in anger and agony.
Laughter had no other reason; no —
a crying devil before every fake smile.
Hardest, once, was working hard —
then it became working hard just to die.
Every day was once another smile.
I always knew the world had different faces,
but it was never such a heavy thought
as it is now, as I grow up.
We are trying every way to reach,
a new day starting with a shadow of cloud;
rushing to the end of the planet, but dispersed
off the life living across the street.
We are flying high, with fear nearby,
and like every time, time flees;
but little do we care, and less we look —
and it builds a sea across the street.
Are we blind, or just insecure?
Or are we building a planet of floors?
A few more takes, and the end is there —
still so far, from across the street.
We are trapped behind the ego,
living life on the stage of a show;
colours are lost into shades of darkness,
and we cry alone, across the street.
The fliers of dreams have no time to stay back in the nest and talk of comfort;
the travelers of the endless sky keep no count of how many times they’ve been pushed back. At the height of success, even the moon may cast your shadow off your glory —
yet even a winner must lose his ground once, if only to reach the sky of his own story.
Though everything is close to me, I am at the farthest place of my own;
though things are happy, reality is something I have learned to cherish. The constant struggle just to survive is a disguise —
of being made a victim by your own will. But life is only a game of risk.
When I look at it from above, it looks one way;
when I look from below, it looks another. And all I understand is this: it is all about life —
and it is different every time.
Everywhere I go, they follow me like a shadow;
every time I try to forgive myself, they point back at me. Every day they burn my other self, and alone, I only hope to match them…