This place has grown,
and I believe I am old.
I haven’t realized
I am a bud
in a gigantic ball
of mud.
I believe aged dreams
are who I am,
while using my memories.
I forgot… I forgot…
Who am I?
My skin is old,
but I am a bud
full of mud.
I want to be taught again.
I had never been born.
I had lived on fairy nightmares.
Let me free!
You have always
been free from…
See the mud,
see the bud,
see the ball,
see the old
become timeless
in love.
Observe with love,
who are you?
who am I?
where are you?
where is the mud
that molds my face?
How many times we forget about the possibility of losing our memories completely, and becoming a stranger to yourself. How can we really become “someone” whose identity is not reduced to memories? How can we really be ourselves?
No comments yet.