Soporous during the day yet the dusk seems to return and approach with some reminiscent essence, a past scent, intensified but prone to evaporate just as soon as it arrives. To push it away or to invite it, or maybe not invite but instead accept it whenever it is in touch… either reaction will do, for the result here to be achieved is of no importance anymore. And yes, I made myself believe in that so I could endure what I couldn’t tend or control. I hadn’t any other way of reacting to a struggle that was mum, that could be summed up by the sum of our two faint gazes.

The days blow it away, remove these ashes of a heart that never quite burned for anyone able to receive such heat. It warmed me instead, and eventually you, for your heart might have been kind of numb or petrified back then, in need of some friction that would not only heat but repeat, and stay still and unasking.

To ask and to expect, one resulting from the other. Both leading souls sold to someone to ruin, with hopes of something else that would go further on than even we are capable of expecting. Except those lucky days, they do not often have a warning sign, not an inherent shine that gives them away, notifying us, wannabe users of such day that would slowly turn into nights and more days ofΒ untethered feelings. Peace, and what if it came to stay, that serenity?

Can someone used to waiting and hoping enjoy what’s offered after all, or will instead keep awaiting something possibly better, endless, he and his own mannerism, that overall apathetic awareness. Yes, that’s too a means of existing, to believe in a utopia that will hardly materialize, hardly, only because any perfection lived and felt will always fall short of what we imagined it’d be.


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