My feet always remain 2 steps behind,
behind,
behind, behind...
Wearing same blouse for the past 20 years.
Torn, mended, re-torn, re-mended a number of times,
like the dreams that never really changed -
they stood still watching other feet moving way ahead of them.
Frustrated,
torn, stitched, re-torn, re-stitched from broken pieces but still in the same stubborn place that prevents me from running ahead to follow the crowd entering the stadium for the last victorious round. Fullstop. Final. Victory. Podium. Gold.
I choose to remove the running shoes and my oversized feet walk slowly trying to feel the grass.
My thoughts breathe lazily watching the sky and clouds passing by,
I still gasp at 6pm each evening as the green parrots pass me by and I swear I can almost feel the wings growing out of my shoulder blades that time...
I smile to the blow of the wind on my back and the warmth of the sun on my face.
My stubborn feet refuse to move and I am still standing at the same place though my thoughts run faster than your words that you throw at me each day as I fail to tell you that I do not understand the meaning.
But I don't.
They sound so lofty and wise.
Cold, straight, cerebral architecture projected outside of the linear brain.
I want to respond but the words run away and they refuse to come out... and they are right, the words, because how am I to describe the touch of a fish before I scream out loud like a wounded animal knowing that I can also hurt and hunt down my prey?
A creeper growing up my scapula and up my neck as the rest of the body morphs into a cat climbing up the lap and asking for more... purring.
Leafs jailed behind the bars of clear cut communication that demands precise structures which I fail to adapt.
The arm stretches out and refuses to bend under the force applied by a renowned martial artist.
Streams flowing up my legs and waterfall falling down my fingers...
And tears flowing down my cheeks as the arm refuses to bend and the words of the outside world fly past me with a flashing speed of a train...
Wrong station. Again.
And then I curse my feet that refuse to run, the arm that refuses to bend, the clothes that refuse to wear out and dreams...
No...
I don't curse the dreams.
I just slowly turn away from the shining lights of the stadium and walk through the fields towards that tiny light of a brass lamp that is calling me through the darkness as I rest at the threshold and my feet turn into the roots growing deep into the soil, while the rest of the world is still running in the opposite direction.
I stay behind.
Free.
And then the wings suddenly grow.
behind,
behind, behind...
Wearing same blouse for the past 20 years.
Torn, mended, re-torn, re-mended a number of times,
like the dreams that never really changed -
they stood still watching other feet moving way ahead of them.
Frustrated,
torn, stitched, re-torn, re-stitched from broken pieces but still in the same stubborn place that prevents me from running ahead to follow the crowd entering the stadium for the last victorious round. Fullstop. Final. Victory. Podium. Gold.
I choose to remove the running shoes and my oversized feet walk slowly trying to feel the grass.
My thoughts breathe lazily watching the sky and clouds passing by,
I still gasp at 6pm each evening as the green parrots pass me by and I swear I can almost feel the wings growing out of my shoulder blades that time...
I smile to the blow of the wind on my back and the warmth of the sun on my face.
My stubborn feet refuse to move and I am still standing at the same place though my thoughts run faster than your words that you throw at me each day as I fail to tell you that I do not understand the meaning.
But I don't.
They sound so lofty and wise.
Cold, straight, cerebral architecture projected outside of the linear brain.
I want to respond but the words run away and they refuse to come out... and they are right, the words, because how am I to describe the touch of a fish before I scream out loud like a wounded animal knowing that I can also hurt and hunt down my prey?
A creeper growing up my scapula and up my neck as the rest of the body morphs into a cat climbing up the lap and asking for more... purring.
Leafs jailed behind the bars of clear cut communication that demands precise structures which I fail to adapt.
The arm stretches out and refuses to bend under the force applied by a renowned martial artist.
Streams flowing up my legs and waterfall falling down my fingers...
And tears flowing down my cheeks as the arm refuses to bend and the words of the outside world fly past me with a flashing speed of a train...
Wrong station. Again.
And then I curse my feet that refuse to run, the arm that refuses to bend, the clothes that refuse to wear out and dreams...
No...
I don't curse the dreams.
I just slowly turn away from the shining lights of the stadium and walk through the fields towards that tiny light of a brass lamp that is calling me through the darkness as I rest at the threshold and my feet turn into the roots growing deep into the soil, while the rest of the world is still running in the opposite direction.
I stay behind.
Free.
And then the wings suddenly grow.
