Normal life is exhausting

During childhood, wanting to grow up. Now, the child has grown up and thinks
about the words coming from the quiet corner of its heart – give up.

Stress. Rush. Pressure. Depression.
It’s not a part of a winter session.
It’s not a temporary tape, guarding the sweet nectar of a fresh grape.

For years, the eyes recognize the salty taste of tears.
For years, the soul drowning in the cold waves of life.

Freely imprisoned in a cage,
grey dust lying on a book shut on the same page.

Screams coming from nearby heads – don’t crawl from previous days.
Don’t run from the days to come.
Walk now.

How can I walk now?

It’s not a slow pace.
It’s a race.
Killing the soul, ignoring the smile on the face.

Empty career, rewarding the mouth with a can of cold beer.
Full floors, inhibiting passion to discover light behind closed doors.
Mood changing headlines, vibes changing deadlines.

Silky cotton. Four wheels. Warmth. Cold. Pain. Sun.
Where are the feels?

That game accompanied by adventure, excitement, experiences,
danger and fulfilment has finished.
Game over.
Finally I discovered the feeling of being sober.

Substances causing happiness have vanished.
Substances causing a different view on life have vanished.

Everything I have, everything we have, only routine.
Beauty devouring routine.

Nothing spontaneous. No curiosity.
No exciting action, spreading humble satisfaction.
Instead of following childhood dreams, listening to blind leaders,
gathering blind teams.

Alarm clock, travelling between stable concrete walls,
sitting between stable concrete walls,
travelling back to cold stable concrete walls.
Sitting, laying, eating, watching, sleeping, talking.

Living in a society, sufficiently wise to create a serving machine.
Living in a society, celebrating a serving lifestyle of a machine.

Where is the fire, naturally wanting to fly?
Where is the fire, naturally wanting to try?

Around me people, chasing for more.
Me behind them, unable to accept it anymore.

I’m not a porcelain vase.
I’m not dead like a porcelain vase.

Born to discover every corner of the wilderness hidden under the mysterious shadow
of the moon.
I’m not born to stay in the safe corner of a concrete room.

Born to feed my inner child, possessed to taste all possible feels.
Not born to eternally feed unknown corners, producing all kinds of bills.

Body, soul, mind, numb, hurt, weak.
A non-empathic crowd, generously giving one week.

Short time for recovery.
It’s too late for recovery.