It’s a pleasant day to walk under the untying breeze and the charismatic shawl, lessons learnt from last night’s promiscuity. The room is under control yet the foreigners plague—poorly withdrawn and the desire to walk, never to stop. It’s a feeling that has held onto me since the beginning of dawn.

I have been trying to understand—morality in uncared books and secrecy in crying, starving. Life seems to have become a compulsion to be lived in a certain way, that if not adhered to—one is left inside the room with no butterflies around. And each night, when the antidepressants walking in such randomness, the walls collide but there is nothing that you can do.

A cage, screeching urges and over-simplified thoughts—there is no satisfaction and there never was. As I try to hold onto my mind, the chest that wants me gone—beside the tempests of July. It’s a feeling that nobody ever wrote about. There is something mysterious about this life, O solitude that does not get enough of me.

Everyone is infatuated with silver, songs which only turn rust into royal attire. But what of the residuals of each moment that hits everyone like a jig-saw puzzle yet nobody ever notices. A yearning, to be at equilibrium and unquestionably at contempt.

In my quest to understand this life, I would like to write a little. But look at us, and the cosmos, a piece that should have been written with no one around. In-fact, the idea to not have been coerced with the material world is something that should solve the puzzle.

The solution, endless days into the secret terrains and the virgin landscape—there is no denial or what is my life even supposed to mean after this. Holding onto everyone’s heart, we walk like there is no tomorrow—or what am I even supposed to do with this unconditional life anymore.

To reach infinity, one has to look for the stars that always want us gone. And every night when I cry over a falling star, I wished that it was me, to even feel what it felt to be adored. And wishes only come true when there is no one round. 

The forests wait for you and I—but wait for me as I try to detach myself from me. It’s the one thing that has always lead me down. Clouds will look busier and the tracks will re-enact disparity. Life was supposed to be a beautiful path—but look at you and us, we aren’t even human.

So pack a little diary, unloved ink and a piece of cotton to protect your imaginations. There is an endless world of opportunities that await, and never will the rain melt us or what is suffering. Now that we have reached the epitome of this congested life, and don’t be naïve to return. It’s the temptation that has always lead us down. Walk unto the pastures of freedom and know that life is a creative little thing out of nothing.