Maybe I should try for standup comedian audition, am that angry…

Advertisements

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. 

Pretend…!!!!

They said,

Pretend

Life is Hunger Games

Pretend 

Things gone wrong have names

What you can’t fix 

Is President Snow

Go with the flow

Pretend to be

The Mocking Jay

Pick your bow, arrow or gun

Now run

Hide and fight

Pretend

Everything in your sight

Is a challenge

Pretend God

Is the Gamemaker

Believe that the odds 

are in your favor…

I whispered,

Even if i pretend 

Life is Hunger Games

And I’m Katniss Everdeen

I don’t remember

Raising my hand

To say ‘I volunteer’…

Posted from WordPress for Android