Days of Perfection

Life is too good to be true, living in a dream, seeing it as a dream. Too beautiful, too surreal, too peaceful, too striking to feel I belonged. I walk in the airs of the past, seeing youthful casts of blurred yellows and greens, smelling nostalgia in the air, unconsciously comparing, likening, taking to both, yet wistfully missing both at the same time. I bathe in bliss and disbelief, living as both the owner and the cast out.

I stand in all this, and I see all the other discontents spread its colours, stopping before full brim, taking a hue and shade of its own, creating its distinct gravity. In this mudslide of life, there is still beauty, despite all the negative sparks and charges. Through them there is life, true life as it is, the dissatisfaction, the struggle, the camaraderie extended. I understand, I understand it all, I just don’t belong. I am one to fight alone, and expend my last breath alone.

As I wake to my woeful age, I am ecstatic yet at the easy hand of death in the same time. I gaze into one innocent eyes to another, loving them each and every as who they are as a being. The little beings exude light, complete trust and excitement, and I slowly come to as I drink from the fountain of life. There is profound sadness that life could not stay as brilliant and blithe each day as how the little beings tread it; the shadow of youth still in their faces, their disillusionment in the later years breaks my heart. What is it that it cannot stay that way?

But the striving, the passion, that which strikes admiration in eyes; the eventual success, the shout of long suppressed joy, all of them such display of beauty! What can I deny of life? What have I to be discontent with? Oh to cry and laugh at the same time, I am there, I am there myself.


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