Waiting

The hours went by, and the days, too, and yes, even the months and the years. I kept chasing my words, stumbling upon every inspiration that came along, doing my best to keep up, to move forward and not stand still. Yet there are rare wasteful moments of standing still, I moved, I ran, I floated, I even flew. Every sound of poetry, every color of a melody and every shade of a word pierced my mind, like a reminiscence of what I used to define as life. I gazed, I looked for the hidden, I forgot to live, because that is what dreamers tend to do.

The blurry vision of everything that fades away with time became what I yearned for, like some desire for the strangeness of despair. Strangeness, I say, because there is no reason or explanation for despair to be vital in my life. Yet I see the beauty of its vitality.

Seeing everything that lies in between, I consider a gift. And, sadly, a curse.

Blindness is what makes people happy, and what comes along with innocence.