It’s almost 2am and I can’t sleep. So I wrote whatever this is:
I’m not starving
Yet I’m far from satisfied
This isn’t only about what I’m eating
But what I’m feeling
There’s a void in my experience
And I yearn for so much more
Things I can only see through my phone
Things I’ll never touch if I’ve got no green
Tired of this dream-crushing machine
That shapes us in complaint cogs
That is the world we now live in
Where needs aren’t met and smiles are fake
But the riches I truly need
Can’t be found within a screen:
The smell of lavender
A bird that sings
Fresh cut weed and flowing streams
A thousand autumn dreams
These things I treasure most
Now come with a high cost
Living fully is a luxury
Affordable to a minority
So, am I wrong for complaining,
When there’s a roof above my head,
A lover waiting on my bed,
Five senses, two firm hands,
An able brain— still no chance?
Is it unfair to retreat to art,
To shelter in movie sets and series,
To find refuge in my books’ pages;
While the world keeps spinning,
Faster and farther away from unity,
From romance, truth and beauty,
From justice or simple empathy?
No matter what I feel in twenty twenty-four
Centuries ago, someone’s felt this way before
Even if our tools have suffered a metamorphosis,
Humanity remains as it is,
As it was,
As it always will be:
Self-centred and self-sabotaging;
Ever-dreaming, ever-doomed.
