Nothing More Than Four Walls
It’s been over half a year, and our vision melts and blends with the rain’s untimely condensation. The temperature is above zero yet feels like snow, cooling the corners of our eyes where tears have once flowed faster than the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. Time has passed us too well. We find each other at arms length, where its measurement is dictated by the pitfalls of our normalcy. Routine has debilitated, almost approaching the ultimate flat line. Let us hold funerals for seconds we wish had before days became no different from nights.
It’s only right to ask if anyone still breathes in this confinement. Alone, but not lonely, we still talk to thin air as we did in our rainy days. An assertion for our desire to see people thrive once more. What were once annoyances suddenly became the best moments we’ve ever had. Boredom becomes fun, and we are chasing the stars because our happy places are no longer reachable. We relapse in and out of change, begging for life’s grandfather clock to revert back into a malfunctioning metronome. The gears of our usual lives have been rusted, surrendering to inevitable decay. We’ve longed to escape what we simply cannot.
God is as forgiving as he is corrupt. The misfortune stuck between the words we pray are not heard. Rejection after rejection, and days pass without any hint of difference. Excitement has become grey, dull, and lacking in vibrance — the euphoria we called home is now mere nostalgia we feast on. Let us cling to everything we’ve taken for granted, because we’re losing sight of what matters as we speak. This infinite summer we’ve fermented in feels more like a coma with no one waiting for us to wake up.
It’s not bad to miss the grass vandalized with trash when people have vandalized our spaces with a storm. It’s not bad to miss the coty’s pollution when the effects of our isolation have done nothing but pollute even the warmest of souls. It’s not bad to miss the evident anarchy than runs amuck, knowing very well anarchy preserves itself judiciously in our forced state of rest.
It’s not bad to miss what we once did not. After all, stories are more interesting with an organic kind of conflict — life is no different.
Now we are a few lullabies away from being consumed. Indeed, everything has gone wrong. What would we possibly sacrifice just for one more foot beyond the boundaries we live in? The world allowed itself to crumble beneath our heartbeats. In turn, we crumble at the weight of our own worries, those that once fought gravity. Time, once gold, is now dirt.
Perhaps we call this change or a prophecy in the waiting. Let’s go as far as calling it destiny in the making. But maybe to some of us, it’s unfortunately nothing more than four walls.
