it has been a bleak month. winter tries to push through dark colored skies and ends up choking on our refuge, our disinterested, selfish ways of living. i watch young and old throw wrappers , peels, spit and at times ugly words, on the roads, side walks and when there is no space here , they throw it up at the skies: burning trash, leaves and petrol.
ive been walking with my head bent to the ground. it hurts to look up at my own reality. I’ve exhausted my fantasies, they are sick of me. lately, the truth of being at an age where fantasies look out of place and dreams are not apt at all, has been knocking on my heart, more like a bang at the door.i catch myself breathless at the death of the dreamer I was. it was what kept me going and living and vivacious.
there is a density to my being and I know it is more than maturity. it feels like dying, no, really, not joking at all. it feel like there an automated breathing going on and that’s it.
some people call that acceptance.
it feels like death.
