Endlessly searching for something solid, they will continue this dance. About the only thing they know how to do, they will surely be enraptured by the moment, sometimes willingly and sometimes hesitantly (the more the dance, the more it becomes the latter).
What dries their spirit is the fact that their pursuit of solidity is endless, yet each dance reinvigorates them as they spark up the last hope in that brief moment every time their steps stroll.
Becoming more and more formless, graceless, and shapeless, the dance is no longer of any aesthetic art expression. It becomes more pathetic, commensurate to their dimming expectation of hope.
The once exuberant, childlike smiles are long gone, but it still has traces of nostalgia.
These were the days of our lost lives.
These are the days of our losing lives.
These will be the days of our brittle minds.
No comments:
Post a Comment