You learn, what you know is not a nightmare. It’s the sweetest dream and you’re not dominated by the yearning of freedom. When you close your eyes, you see burning stars. 300 years. 200 years. 100 years. Centuries fade into nothingness when you’re catching stardust in your eyes.
You make the rules, because imperfection is not a death sentence. You make the rules, because the mind only fears power and strict law. You make the rules, because you’re stubborn and delinquency calls for a vicious mentor. Explanations are an admission of failure.
You are the rules, because what’s in your hand belongs to you.
Your strokes construct beauty, the perfection that you were once not. It’s a fiery landscape, stage dusking into a graceful cease of sunset. You paint silhouettes with flicks of your wrist, and your fingers draw over dry vivid colours veiled by a layer of hazed grey.
Tones are drawn alive in your grasp.
You tally another fleeting cycle of time. You hear laughter echoing through cavities of your mind.
And happy birthday, to yourself.
