My voice is the reflection of my soul.
It stands alone, distant, crying for comprehension and companionship,
As I am strangled by my childish inspirations.
I scream without a sound.
We both try to reach out,
But dreams are overpowering and
We are silenced by the belladonic haze of imagination.
Paralyzed in intoxication, we stand quiet.
We know our power. We know how to be loud and be heard.
But we also realize that the moment isn’t right. We realize that our only enemy is time.
Time is evil and boredom and anxiety are its knights.
So we go back to dreaming.
We dream of a time to be extreme.
We dream of a time to seize control, to be fearless.
We dream of not having to dream, and we time for not having to time.
But the wait is afflictive, so I am patient and it whispers.
(A. Cortada)
|