rivalry between birds, sky fluffed with clouds, clouds wooled with blues. of course, the sun is 150.2 million kilometres away, but these clouds of blues are not. i am choking, and i can only see the spirals of plumes of blues and epiphanies. nobody knows me, or i have never been whole to anyone. a filtered piece of my life in south, another filtered piece of my life in north, another one in west, and east.
everyone is playing the same game, battling over the same illness, dying a hundred deaths a day, and frantically hoping for the god to toss a miracle card. we are islands and lagoons. we choose strangers. we feel more comfortable with strangers, with a partial or fully eclipsed person on the other side of globe than the ones who sit beside us. we stream down our blues onto their bowls. and the time is precious, it should not be wasted upon thoughts, bout the colours and patterns of these bowls.
and a thousand dozens of people, expert stalkers, wistful stalkers, love-starved stalkers. some are not just stalkers, but stalk-ards like drunkards. and sadly some love-starved stalk-ards leave this world like an unpublished author (without confessing). some don’t give a damn about shame, when the bowl of love is full, let it spill. some are cursed to be alone, rejected. some are destined to cling to illusions, the illusion that she is also being cared, or noticed, or followed, or loved. this is a kind of serious malady.
and there’s a sad song of racism, not of blacks and whites, not of Christians and Jews, but – of the idea of perfection and imperfect-thoughts. it exists only in the minds of those who choose to degrade themselves. no, they don’t choose to, but they’re preyed, by something, they say. this thought is poisonous. this thought is infectious. this thought is hell…
” she is more beautiful, more angelic but i am… he is hot, amazingly witty but i am… her collection of clothes and his table of food… their pictures of swirling around the globe…free and wild birds…happy faces…fairytale love… fictional life… and some striking artists with a lot of followers, love and applauses but i am... “
there are no pockets of gratitude, but only beads to count the curses. this feeling of nothingness is attached with the fear of rejection. “give it a try” they say, but it is impossible when the fear of rejection is so deep. fear is disquietude, crammed with sorrows, annoyance, remorse and many more bitter bitter thoughts. this fear of rejection leads to the thoughts of doom. and a pathetic death with empty hands. the end.
and a bunch of people, short tempered, and with the speed of jet planes. always swaying with the world’s madness, not giving it a second thought. if a person is vaguely labelled as a culprit, he is a culprit, not giving a Google search or time to unravel the case. it leads to the inflation of world of ignorance. if a thought is born inside his head, it is a full-born to post, not giving more time to be more specific. and it leads the heart to the suffocating room of regrets.
and the most popular game of this era is nothing but busying oneself with gadgets, busying oneself with the art of scrolling up and down (the screen). time is precious, it should not be wasted upon thoughts, about productivity. this art of scrolling up and down (the screen) leads to the art of laziness and unorganisation. and some fall into the darkest part of ocean or abyss – depression.
this is a generation of caged birds and sad songs. this is a generation of self doubts and fears. this is a century of maladies. this is a century of slippery paths. this is a cursed century. this is a colonised century. too many victims, but not even a single victory. – we are trapped. we are troubled. there is no exit, to the old green- fresh-big world.
© Sanna Wren
( pictures are taken from pinterest )