Thursday, April 12, 2012

i want
not the wings of angels
i don't want 
to walk anymore
my feet are
the colour of my path
the earth
does not tempt my
feet any more

i want
the days of water
of rain
tearing through my skin
seeking blood

i want
the flight 
of the wind above 
a monsoon sky

i want

There must be some kinda way out of here

it cant all be desolation. it cant always be a test of my patience and of my ability to persevere. it cant always feel like my life has changed into something i dont fit into. how old is too old an age to go about finding one's own identity?

i dont know how much longer i can bide my time or let my life take its own course. the control freak in me is raging at me for letting this happen. the superstitious crazy in me is finding a sign or an omen every minute. the whimsical hippie flower child in me has nearly died.

ive also realised, as i am writing this, that i am obsessed with age. the concept of it and the appropriateness of it. the changes each passing day can bring to a person. in the past few months i think ive aged mentally a lot. i also feel like i have regressed to a time and age that i once used to protest about. it makes me uncomfortable to think that i have become the person a younger me would make fun of. but the younger me was also immature. but i loved that immaturity. i deeply regret not enjoying that immaturity when i had it. i miss the freedoms and the conflicts and the foolish struggles of a few years ago.