Can you smell it, that plight, your ruin, your growth? You could tell it was coming, this isn’t your first time, you aren’t so weak anymore, spoiled with tiny null smiles and tears, those that come and go but barely scratch. You’re simply a non-child now.
Who wants to be small anyway? I sure do not, sure as I crave something else that isn’t still this of now. Call me uncommon or the contrary, I’m not like her or him, not at all. What I grew to be and crave is really something that the kid I was could have never dreamed of. Maybe that’s why I can’t miss what I was since it brought me none of what I’d consist of.
Maybe I rebelled from my home and felt good with it. Maybe I’m not what they all think, and maybe just maybe I’m not sure about this I’m here stating. Maybe I’m someone only you can describe to full extent. Maybe I shouldn’t have let you in. But how can I believe in an existence endorsed by maybes if everything I once wished or expected to see happen and true, never did?
Yes, maybe I shouldn’t write so you can’t read, and thus we could put an end to this spiral of convolution… this that maybe takes us nowhere. But wait… No! I can smell it already, the scent of something unforecasted, its aroma says all. Yes, it’s the smell of a crisis yet to come, one I’m longing for.