Tripping_Daydreams

There is a child in the park

Playing in the sand pit

The last of sunset

Makes the grains on her hands

Glow like stars

Her face, filled with glee, gazes

At the particles of stardust

In her palms

She remembers her mom saying

We are made of things

That stars are made of

Her mind wanders

Somewhere to the edge

Of a cosmos so bright

It hurts her little eyes

A spaceship floats through it

And she is the sole captain

Her crewmates are the kids

She plays with in the sandpit

They build castles

Of the content in the galaxy

They are filled with wonder

Somewhere in her veins,

A lost particle

Belonging

to the cosmos in her head

There are so many stories left barren in the crevices of my mind due to the complexities of my life. The vastness of the world amazes and scares me at the same time. The fact that I am capable of engraving so much of it into the folds of my brain is wonderful but the tragedy is that all of it lost once I am gone. 

All the places I have seen, the memories I have had, the moments I have lived are photographed into myself in a way that cannot be lived by another. They are the little treasures I have kept as souvenirs.

Once death embraces me, all my treasures are blown into the air the way a dandelion is scattered into the wind. It is comforting to know that all my worries are but a strong wind away but worrying to know that all my successes are too. 

The way sunflowers face the sun and turn their back to the overwhelming sky of clouds, perhaps, I am but a sunflower trying to ignore the fantastically spacious universe and focus on a minute part of it. Perhaps, it gives me joy in doing so. In imagining that I am slightly bigger than I really am.

I crave for the knowledge that may come centuries after I am buried six feet deep. I weep in realization that I won’t ever get a taste of it but soothe my heart with a cool pack of “What if things are worse then, than they are now?”

I wish to write all of these sorrows and all of these fears but do not find the strength in my arm. My throat forms a lump whenever I try to speak and my tongue gives away. My vocal cords constrict as if I’m under a spell that forbids me of speaking my insides out loud.

This is the reason that the words left on the inner side of my skin burn like scorching hot fire that threatens to incinerate me. I try time and time again to spit them out but it is as if they have swore an oath of burrowing their phalanges deep in my raw skin and refusing to let go, much like a parasite that derives what it can from you and leaves you labouring for breath.

Sometimes, my words eat me alive.

- quoetree

Ophelia- Friedrich Heyser

White peonies and a jar- Kami Mendlik