illusory comfort
a waft of memory passed by
back when I was twenty-two and alive
albeit, silly and naive, passing every moment to bliss
believing temporary luxury is forever sustained
a sudden imagery flashed on me
this naive girl believed
different things will come ahead
not seeing the chains around her ankle
holding her back, dragging her to insecurity
I remember something
yes, I did
when I drifted back to sleep
some memories are triggered
bring me back, bring me back
to the feeling of bliss, to the moments of simple joys
before grandpa's passing
before I fucked up my own demeanor
my drowsy days rolled back to eighteen
further and further down to fifteen
but it didn't sang a heartbreak
only that...
same place, same days
stuck, seems the world stagnates
except aging
right here, on my jaw, indicating
I'm not getting any younger
no... perhaps not ever
the tremors of days
doesn't weigh if the flip of them is quick
a second to reminisce, a split second to feel
before intuition itself seemed to move on
to normalcy
yet the comfort of the days seen
descends like feathers fluttering an affectionate embrace
the wings is knowingly soft, such gentleness,
how fleeting
until it rings true to my head
it harks backdrops of memories
limpid when I recall, I might have lived a life
not this, not like this
when I detoriate
and the fitness of dreams
wilts and die
no, not die
perhaps extinguished, perhaps dulled
perhaps cooled and more controlled
summer of seventeen
I ran towards the library
to pull King Louis XIV
books, you hedony
calling in culmination
in the barbaric justice of guillotine
sweet afternoon of two pm
fresh morning of nine am
I take my bike and roll
when was it?
why isn't here now?
eight, nine before early morning
when feet trod along the road
busy, not busy, thriving
telling me I'm still alive
by rhythm, content of its own
someday, I'll remember this too
my own perdition, of slothful back
and idleness that leaves to excess
I'll be paying them back as sins
for neglect, for foolishness, that excuses the chronic illness
that no naked eye can see
except, sometimes, old recollections are the antidote
of existential angst
that only affects me
maybe when I relish them again
I could sketch them, not by broad strokes
but by the minutae of every detail
once a highlight, forever etched in my mind
spilled out in black letters, if I succeed this endeavor
