a rucksack full of clothes
memories, in every pocket
and one old, bulky laptop
to relive them all
i find myself asleep now
berth to berth, shivering
forgotten by life itself
and i – forgetting to live
trapped within my own mind
staring at walls made of failure
desperate for a window
just for a ray of light
aimless at the crossroads
dragging my feet on, and on
how i hope this sack were light
and i’d just find home
it’s not as easy as it seems to be
for my lips are smiling
but not my broken heart
am i to suffer in perpetuity
for that one mistake one time
but what of all the good i did
to wander aimlessly waiting for you
for just one more night
but you seem to have moved on
it is not as it seems
for my eyes seem to sparkle
but not my dead soul
It is so easy to forget about texture of life and get lost in all the gloss… So much temptation in letting go of the good and embracing the bad. All it takes is a will, to lack any will.
Just because the eyes are sleeping doesn’t mean that the mind is taking a nap too…
Hard to get rid of inertia. The moment you lose focus, you make it difficult to get back to it. Maybe that’s because of the realisation of how easy it is to be lazy.
Days go by so fast that you don’t even realize how afraid you were to face tomorrow till yesterday!
Everyone has a voice. Mostly hidden under a mountain of ‘you are right’ and ‘ I agree with you’. Every now and again I will find mine. Only to be shocked with the rough, blunt and overall dull nature I never thought it had. Or I might be over analyzing it.
But whenever I come across an article so flawless, so deep and effortless in its structure, I am filled with newfound vigor and passion for my writing. Unfortunately for me, the child within me takes over every time something good is about to happen and messes it all up. It plays with my voice like a new bought shiny toy it never thought it wanted, plays with it for a couple of days and throws it in a dank corner of existence never to be picked back up again.
Somehow I have had my voice change over time depending on what I wrote. How I wrote. It gets more and more difficult to find that old voice that I so desperately crave. Where’s the humor? Where are all the jokes? Maybe I cannot make a joke because even if I did, I’d be too stupid to get it.
I guess I need to keep at it. Reading back whatever pile of garbage I poured over on the page above is proof enough. All I need is some inspiration… Great excuse to get cheap bus tickets and roam around the city witnessing random strangers quarreling over the seat. After all the guy threw in the kerchief onto the seat from the window. He got dibs!