Every evening, after squandering all the opportunities of a shiny and brilliant future, I return. To the same desolate monstrous cave of my little room where bits of paper and some sharp cuttings of my naive fantasies lie scattered amidst the big demonic puddle of reality crashing straight through the faulty cities in the stems of my cold spinal cord which connects to no brand new polished bottles of fluid hopes.
I lock myself in and chain my feet and hands to the floor of truths. Like a prodigal son I do return to find the world throwing around parties celebrating me and the broken dreams that will forever be stuck in my fruitless imaginations of freedom, the very way a bayonet is all a soldier carries in his heart to live for he knows without the knife the wound would bleed faster, gushing out like beautiful waterfalls of Niagara.
Crumbs of my frozen tears suck all the life my face could have managed to fake. These days, I sleep more often; my preferences have changed sides and cheer for the murkiness in my stone eyes from nightmares that are not dreadful anymore. My room or cage, whichever sounds appropriate more than the other, is also a castle of smoke that, incidentally, vaporizes the liquid in the tiny vial of emotions that was not considered valuable enough for the survival of my shrewd identity.
It is, indeed, amazing how the window does not reveal those glittery skies of possibilities again; the same way I used to behold in my reveries before setting out in the search of mere illusions. I do not know what it is that breathes in my ears when the giant door opens, whether the murmur of lost chances or the brutal shattering of my heart into needles of boundless pain.
- Ishura
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