The morning drips from the hands of clock.
Soon there will arise a sky that tries its best not to look empty.
Soon people will walk about the streets
forgetting the sun that they had been waiting for,
forgetting the night they struggled to survive.
I almost collide with a person like that, like me,
who try their best
that their forgetfulness seems as genuine as possible
and rely on their faith that no one will be unkind enough
to give voice to what they see and know.
The longer I live, the aversion
I once had for all fakeness
is replaced with some kind of pity.
You ask why I don’t stay and fight.
You ask if I realise that
I can win as much as others.
I tell you that everyone has a dream.
And what I get by staying and fighting,
are not my dream.
That I cannot live in this world
of regulated self-expression.
Always fearing when I would spill out of the lines.
So even if my broken is not as shabby and scattered.
Even if my madness is not the sort
that can get admiration.
Even if my hands struggle with holding myself where I am.
Just know that I leave,
not because of aversion to this world,
nor to find a better place.
I leave cause I cannot breathe in water
even if I want to.
I want to stay away from people,
who I once called friends,
(I think they never called me that)
and I have doubts on what I feel.
I am suffering from an unexplained aversion
to human relation and condition.
My efforts are spent
in avoiding people and small talks.
I spend my days
thinking, “What is wrong with me?’,
knowing that these feeling are weird
and still not finding something wrong
where there should be soomething wrong.
In the brief moments when I am reminded
of once dear faces,
I feel an ache,
a feeling that I have been let down,
I have been betrayed by everyone,
I have been wronged.
I am no longer myself.
I am somewhere where
I have lost sense of myself and others.
Even though you miss me,
even though you love me,
please don’t try to bring me back.