Who am I?

Sometimes I miss the person I was when I first fell in love, the person I was when I fell in river of sadness that took me to the sea of blues, the person I was when I became adaptive to the darkness like one of those rare flying fish, the person I was who had a dream or two or three, the person who lived in happy fantasies where everything was just the way it should be sunny and peachy, the person I am not anymore.

I am still a warrior but I’m not a fish anymore just a seashell collector who is blue in color, lives around ruins from the sea of past and often smiles when comes across rusty pieces of what life was once upon a time.

Who am I?

A girl, a fish, a sea shell collector or a ghost that breathes like humans do?
Though I quite often feel like painting fallen in a pool of water who’s fresh paints are no longer on it, but still spilled all around.

Who am I?

Am I a painting?

Something old, something blue.

I miss what I was because once, at least I knew what I was. Now I’m like invalid and a lost space junk that is there but can’t remember why and how it got there.

Who am I?

Am I space junk?

Strange but even as I type I can hear a faint heartbeat, which means I’m alive and probably human like.

Who am I?

Am I a person, a living human specie? If yes then why do I feel unalive?

You want me to believe in God and I will one-day, but what am I to do after finding God when I’m yet to find myself.

I will not ask your God, who am I? Because I don’t want someone else to tell me. I want to find out but it’s too damn dark and though I can see like an owl, all clear and yet still dark, I wonder what road am I on and why?

Who am I?

Am I an owl?

Because if that’s true well at least that answers the beating heart. And why I’m up at 4 in the morning.

Shall I close my eyes now and wait for the planet to rotate and find the sun, so I could ponder on the question with a cup of coffee and some breakfast.

Though this sounds crazy because it could mean I’m a writer. A sad, night owl with bag full of words and an addiction to coffee and food.

Who am I, really?


The broken toy of revolution…

A revolutionary is someone who religiously believes in non-existence of barriers. And I’m all but someone who is blind to the walls for all I do is paints dreams over the them, turning them into my canvas for imagination. 

Maybe I’m broken part of the revolution generation, maybe I’m the idea of what a flightless bird looks like for I sure would not fly even with the cage down. A revolutionary I shall never be, but I do know how to feel like one with my eyes closed. I can  paint myself into anything I want, a flygirl, a pirate, a war hero and even a renegade, an insurgent. 
So let the mind weep for the deadness of the brave rebellious soul; the heart shall live in stories, the fabrication of beautiful lies, that brings  a whole new world alive creating a sky and land that needs no more anarchy.