A free-write by me. Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions.
The goosebumps on my arm arose like the tips of icebergs, representing separation. My tear ducts are cloned from cacti, hidden from the naked eye, as eyes refuse to bear the conditions that imprison us without proper armor. Water is such a demanding, selfish, oblivious substance. It demands to have its fill, seizing through an entire territory unwarranted. Such destructive desires, and always conquering. Tears are discourteous droplets unequipped with proper etiquette -- orphans, corroding vision without disciplinary action. Even in the best of moments, life is simply a tease, a foreboding empty hope that we can control. Despite gifts that are granted, destinies we attempt to monopolize upon, we are manufactured with blueprints determined to conceal our autopilot system.
How primitive we are to have such mundane necessities. With every bite we could be devouring obstacles, with every ping of drought that surges through our veins we could be quenching our thirst for discovery. I am whittled down to a state of mind that cannot allow for incoming transmissions of kindness, for I feel unworthy. Trained throughout my childhood to remain forever nomadic, I have trekked across my thoughts, plummeted to the depths of my ambitions, survived the thrash of my surroundings, and have only mastered the ability to exalt myself into a vulnerable state in the center of vast vacancies. Cruelty, it is, to feel sadness that chokes and strangles your insides while the individuals that exist around me offer unrequited love. A hateful form of karma, burying you alive in a coffin six feet underneath the very feet that allow us to stand, rewarding sympathy in the form of transplanting you on a glorious perch inside a birdcage. Living like a bird with such sought-after gifts, flying relentlessly against the cool iron bars, eager to see the parting of lips and the strange rows of teeth that smile at me, offering me nutrients that both of us foreign creatures must accept. Such kind gestures for such despair the bird feels, that incredulous, self-centered bird whom exists in a state of purgatory filled with self-pity. That bird who dares to battle water, opposing with such force that can only be analyzed as the intent of victory.
I am irrevocably devoted to a repel that I did not request. Such advancements and executions, I am the fly on a wall in a room hosting a parasitic relationship with a wallflower, forcing me into self-symbiosis. This world with a purpose, while purposefully perilous paths deter from direction, intersecting and overlapping to create a maze built by masterminds. I refuse to romanticize with the belief that, as an infant, I was dispensed onto this land for the purpose of being led to the cracks in the soil like a horse to a stream. The stream, once flourishing, must have succumbed to the exhaustion of overuse, presenting me with poor timing.
Time and goodbyes must conspire in order to keep the assembly line frantically recycling. So much movement for a planet that leads us to believe we're standing still.
It is but a curse to see so much if they choose to see so little. We are rationed very little choice -- perhaps it is pure corruption to loiter between choices and notions. To have thought, to eagerly consume so much, to dream, only to bid farewell to the energy as it goes on to travel with a one-way ticket in hand. I am standing on the platform carrying invisible baggage and inconsiderate water that will emerge from my illusion of a cactus on its own accord. But after the molecules disperse, the furniture croaks a sigh of relief as the fire is extinguished from the painting outside the window. Only 24 hours within the confines of 365 days in a year. Only a small falter in the system, only time shaking hands with goodbyes as you wave the designs on your fingers to the break in the assembly line. Always offering such brilliantly unique designs, fingerprints are no match for the power of that monotonous black belt that conveys such a linear path.
But I am graciously given a lullaby with the melody of honey -- both leftover secretion and sweet -- as the roar of the engines are slowly diffused when sleep kidnaps me.