Not from everything I have done,
but from the weight of my conscience which reminds me of everything I haven’t.
Yet, I choose to move forward.
To reach a place which I could call the home of my life.
And all the steps, breaths, and tips I took brought me nowhere but here.
No matter how much I screamed, I could never find my voice.
No matter how hard I danced, I could never entertain myself.
I was supposed to be bleeding, but I haven’t died yet.
I failed to commit, to resist, to survive,
and so I fell unceremoniously, painlessly, and frictionless.
To the bottom where I chose to rest from the arduous journey towards the mysterious other side of success.
And so, it became just another unfinished chapter I have added to my book.
For some, life presents bountiful of opportunities, choices, and paths to stroll and swift through.
Yet for some, life is limited, constraining, wish-denying, confusing, vain, and the worst of all, meaningless.
There is no what you are supposed to be;
There is no what you have to be;
especially there is no great nature inside which you can’t not let out.
Life is meaningless in a way.
Then why do we try?!
To impart importance on a series of likes and dislikes:
based on what we see and what we don’t;
what we hear and what we don’t;
what we think and what we don’t.
All of that because to feel what we don’t.
And that chasm of desire drive us to the good and the bad.
And the same depths have driven me here to the beginning,
to the past, to the roots from where I stemmed out my want-to-feel’s.