And When the Days get Blue

I spent the whole weekend living a colourless life.

Eating a gourmet of food,

But failing to taste its splendor.

I come to my resting place, and I sleep my way out of feeling.

I hide away in my dreams, but even they have a motive for my eyes to behold.

I wonder then, that if death was as easy as sleep, perhaps I would give into her.

Death, infact, is like sleep. Death is falling asleep earlier than one ought to, if the length of the day is life itself.

What caused this… I dont know what to call it… shattering of the heart?

I wish to sprinkle a little bit of flavour, it could even be bare salt, unseasoned. But I cannot find any.

I usually get bumps of joy here and there, but before I know it I get back to my previous mood. Anxious?

What’s going on underneath my sore eyes, what’s pricking my feet and leaving me to limp?

My life is bare. No harvest.

No sunshine in my morning.

No soothing music in my day, just the cold dry wind taking with her my youthful look and leaving cracks on my skin. Cracks I am to live with if I cannot find a way to rid off them.

My friends. A word of encouragement. A walk in the neighbourhood. The dusting of my feet. Release me from the heaviness of the moment. Release me.