If only I could stop dreaming. Life would be so much easier - an effortless, soothing vagrancy. Some heavenly, almost holy maze I would willfully get tangled in, hoggishly inhaling its fragrant wheezes of reminiscence.
If only I could stop remembering. A shortcoming ineptitude to recall the joy my sanity is heir to. Blissfully unaware of the beauties tomorrow beholds for me. The puerile inexperience, cherished in a womb of stargazing wishes. The impeccable innocence, the stainless purity.
If only I could stop hoping. I could positively do without this infatuate yearning, this preposterous conviction that the future is, indeed, a living personage, a sapient seraph who consistently whispers in our minds, yielding us with ulterior thoughts I once believed taught me to rip out the evil vestiges of my feral self.
And yet, I treasure my dreams with a tenderness so powerful, it avidly engulfs my most rooted memoirs, my striving aspirations. I embrace every fault, every mistake, every lapse I once surrendered to. And I mold them into loving replicas of my utopian flair, and I doll them up with benevolence, saucing them with boundless sweetness.
If only I could hope for more. If only I could remember more. If only I could dream more. If only I could love more.
And yet, I treasure my dreams with a tenderness so powerful, it avidly engulfs my most rooted memoirs, my striving aspirations. I embrace every fault, every mistake, every lapse I once surrendered to. And I mold them into loving replicas of my utopian flair, and I doll them up with benevolence, saucing them with boundless sweetness.
If only I could hope for more. If only I could remember more. If only I could dream more. If only I could love more.
Addah Monoceros.
No comments:
Post a Comment