The struggle for life is translated into the hustle in the 21st century, nobody really knows why and how we would die. Cancer probably, or covid19? I feel like I might perish because of the lack of support systems and the deep dark depression that manifests some time to time
as a harsh anxiety attack.
I remember the dark and dry air that filled my lungs
long before I started inhaling the most poisonous of all poisons.
I remember the cold
that hurt my forehead
while I was still asleep,
the chilling feeling of the current
that escaped above my bed and through my covers.
I remember I stood against the will to diffuse
into the sweet, comfortable sleep
where the ice that is in my hearth is forgotten
by my childish mind.
I remember the smoke
and that it would never come intentional
and that my respiratory systems did not care either
about the quality of air,
knowing that when I rise,
it shall be removed away,
anyway.
I remember not having breakfast or not drinking orange juice before I had to take a bus to be pulled and pushed amongst other cold bodies who wanted, as much as I did, to forget their dispairs, and to leave the unbearable responsibilities behind the locked doors where nobody felt truly home.
The darkness that threw us ahead of our generation,
got us wiser
and considered to be more accountable,
I remember its magnificent power.
The promises of a non-actualized potential
that which keeps us continuously alive,
far from a proper survival,
I learned to dispose towards
the beauty of someone's calm and warm comfort.
Never really gotten over with the opportunities
gifting us an abundance of a lighthearted energy...
Some call it inner peace,
some say it's love,
others believe in an almighty god,
in a savior yet to be humiliated
in the eyes of his beloved crowd.
That's when I put my coat and covered my sorrow,
I figured that these too want to die and it's the fate of all of us who are still alive.
