Sitting here, I wonder if it's about seeing in the mirror and liking what I see. 'Your eyes speak', they say. With every look of myself I get everytime I see, they, my eyes, seem to want to confront me. With all my honesty, I say, I run away from them. I try to. But the next time, everytime, it's a sensation of their coming toward me more hurriedly.
They must be knowing the truth behind all the lies under the Sun I may have happened to tell myself in order to keep going. It's what I am used to do. To keep going, not knowing how far but far still. I am not used to the comfort there is in stopping for a moment or two. The comfort doesn't comfort me enough, although the view of it I get is inviting and tempting.
I do not like the idea of walking the carpet that could take me somewhere I may be told I could dream. It doesn't completely satisfy me, being somewhere for a long time where there is everything I like. Going somewhere for a while where they may think I could find my soul.
Because the smoothness of the carpet could only soften my feet whose beauty, I believe, is having come through thick and thin. To be given everything I like only to limit the growth of my desires. And being told what I could find, only to prove wrong a grownup that I am.
I refuse softening my feet. I refuse being told possibilities of what I could find. My soul? I myself am a soul. I just have to know how does it reside in this body. I just have to recognize the intensity of the failure when I fail expressing how I feel. It only makes me write this on a paper, with a red marker. Only to show that anger is taking place. Somewhere within me.