“What was I born for?” –
these words feel like a déjà-vu.
It seems like I have travelled through a thousand stories
Collected a bright string of multichrome memories
Only to find myself in a place I have grown so used to reaching.
My inner child running towards the horizon, waving her paper kite against the storm
Shooting me an audacious smile –
Sometimes, I watch you with awe
Sometimes, with disquiet.
Even on my way home,
when the fine rain intermingles with the sounds of airplanes and tires
Foil against aleatorik, chirping resounds with unrivaled cheeriness;
I lift my gaze, and it almost seems as if
My feathery friend sets off into heights I am not to familiarize myself with…
I, too, lack courage at times
I, too, lack answers at times
If everyone else figures it out, then why not I?
And just like the chirps, the beams make their way with obstinacy,
reflecting lush on the leaves the wind blew against the paving
Are the chirps becoming clear? Or how are these the things I hear:
“direct your steps hopewards –
this is where the skilled travellers go.
The beginning of each new morning will bear confusion, but
each loss is succeeded by new gain.”
The cherry blossom islands I fancied as a child, floating high above the clouds
I need to grow more to touch them, if only with my fingertips—