Illusion

“Years of labor, locks, and ceilings

But it’s gonna be alright, I did my time”

 -Taylor Swift

I recently got back from a beautiful trip, where the sea met the mountains and the sky was a delighted spectator. It was supposed to calm me, but the calmness never reached-only grey, only blue.

The complexity of human emotions is a blackhole by itself, never entirely understood. You try to let go, with all that blood on your hands, but at some lame party, their jokes echo in your mind, and you hold even tighter. And you hate to admit the fact you’re still holding, hoping…

We often miss the illusion, but I’d rather let grief confuse me, then consume me, till I’m almost out of breath. Perhaps my hands, after all that blood, would finally go numb. 

The fear of being alone doesn’t consume me as much as translating my soul does. Perhaps once my hands start to tremble, I’ll glue my cracks, rebuild my worth, and rise like a phoenix. 

Yet, the question remains with no answer, once I do my time, is it gonna be alright? Will I be able to trust again?