You see, words turned to life only once you turned me down, or instead, when I was finally turned the right way about how wrong it was all meant to end like. My once love for you was magical to me, magical realism, a play to fool the eye of the only one there looking endlessly for something other than what was possible. I was aware it would so hardly ever become what I dreamed of, I knew but I couldn’t admit that living beyond you could be an option too. I didn’t think I could move on. I did.
I know you did not see but I kept going in ways that were deemed so farther beyond sensible by some. And those few that slightly cared, they told me to either quit or talk, as if it were easy to be a man and not a rat at the time. Well, a mouse craves not the truth cause it’s often empty, but dreams, they stink and widen one’s appetite so wide that all crumbs suddenly matter.
Rats are smart, smart enough to keep running around chasing said bits that were never there. Bits which only in thoughts held a taste and even some texture, and they are wise enough to let those be their lifelong sustenance if so needed. I was almost up to being your most loyal rodent if you hadn’t been kind enough to thump me with your soles in disapproval. So I fled, thank you!
Well, now I know that it’s of no worth to choke up on invisible meat. Specially when even a big chunk of what’s real is just as worthless and we as wanderers, embrace the jog only so we may tick things off our list, for the sake of sport almost, for the purpose of self growth. Because all the rest out there, you see them so ripped from it all while you slouch weakened from wanting to be a man and be true to a cause, a prospect that is so personal that it’s also often imaginary… but not always.
And that “not always” part is overall the smoothest juice of life. Odd cause this juice is also warm, but it’s however all the more pleasant. And another thing is that seemingly one’s first love will hardly be the last and if it ends up being, then that’s probably because you either grew up in anywhere’s rural 50’s or died a little too much from a love kinda wrong for you. But anyways, I shall silence myself right about now so not to risk pervading into matters further unknown, for the truth is I know barely anything about these great deals of passion.
I’m a simple autodidact who oscillates between overrating and underestimating himself. And so is she, and us and all those unaware of me or her but that would fall for us even deeper than we managed to do for each other, if only they had met us like we did.
We might now both be open to calling ourselves fortunate for having crossed paths as a result of the flutter of some random and most definitely impaired butterfly’s wings. Yes… I bet that butterfly must’ve been one of the maddest to ever have eclosed if it lived only to put us up to something like this, so quiet, so beautiful, so boring, so hopeful (or hopeless, if she’s to opine).
Such a silly bug indeed!…