Make-believe
Is it joy, or just escapism? What makes our eyes tick to see black-and-white bleakness through a prism? The attitudes of optimism have plagued facts, leaving no room for realism in our microcosm. This isn’t to say every moment is toxic positivity hiding in a vivaciously crafted trenchcoat. We leave behind trails of memories only recalled in an exchange of quotes. It makes more sense how we all happen to row the same boat. Forward, quite miserably, has been our only option. We’re fond of trembing before all the sweetest notes.
Perhaps the little things, though meaningless, only make the most sense at our weakest. The intensity of grovelling for the fruits of our emotional labor has only let us succumb to the infinite prayers we tie in macrame pieces. To some of us, scouring for fulfillment is foolish. Out of any of our attempts to stay afloat, staying empty until further notice immediately becomes the easiest.
So why do we cope relentlessly, hoping for a one-eighty turn in our disposition? Did we not decide to disobey our psychological physics, becoming immovable in the glaring face of any intense emotion? What good is a standstill if our roots have dug deeper than our intentions? The reality is that neither raging winds nor thundering storms could relieve our internal tensions.
This is not a contest, granted that there’s not a single damn thing to win. We’ve only swayed our branches to the rhythms of any breeze or gust. Stubbornness proliferates the neural networks bound to our feet, silencing our supposedly noisy actions. Our footsteps “forward" have become tickles that annoy the very ground we populate, depraving our senses of everything—even the smallest speck of dust.
Suddenly we are tinier than how people describe our proportions to the stars. We are atoms, rotating the gears of stories of those who don’t deserve our best endings. Our self-denial has forced our last spark of hope to dance with melancholy. Fervor is gambled in favor of our limerick-style musings. The timelines we should’ve chosen mock us. Our alternate selves have nothing to wish us but the best of luck, which he have decided to unknowingly lose. We cope with all sorts of vices excused as petty virtuous battle scars. Beneath our aged branches, happiness hung itself on a noose.
The zephyr and petrichor have nothing against our dreams, yet they break our arms until we get the point. I suppose the messages from the beyond imprinted goosebumps onto our beings, deeper than skin. We are Judases, selling our present for a future only proven in silver coins. We are messiahs, preaching our hysteria through one too many sins.
The evening has birthed the best dahlias, a symbol of betrayal. The only key difference is that they have built bushes on our feet. We feast on their make-believe stories of a better future we’re bound to ignore. Our saving grace has brilliantly cornerded us with illusions of grandiose, painting our defeat.
One day, we’ll understand that there is substance in the emotiins we hid. There are auctions that have never been won because the sellers have been waiting for our bid. We can’t stay in the dark forever, digging until we reach the ends of our wit.
After all, the world never stopped moving the moment we did.
