Destination

There is no need for a big dream to dream big,
put on an apron and it already begun
[Rabbits. Zebras running. Go— equilibrium.
Cold rain. Skin. Lions. Mood. Rain, sleep.]

As I stare to the wrong tip of the iceberg,
the people in the living room keep dancing for rain in an electrical storm.
[Wait on something to fill. With— I wouldn’t know what. Hope in mouth, just like a prize.
Sun now. Cold tiles. Bones. The palm of your hand. A tattered dream of time.]

It’s a time to be so small — so small we cannot bear it.
So small that to lift our tiny fists seems pointless and targetless.
[You. Sleeping like an angel. Fade. A walking memory following me.
Unhappy. Daymare. Unrest. Mess. Dinner is ready. My time to go.]

Trying to find an extremity that you can’t never know if exists.
To blindly grope for an edge, not sure what to find, maybe fire.
[Lions again. Newborns. Need to feed. Deers. Gazelles. Over and over. Go.
One more time what really was before— a matter of surviving.]

The pursue of adjusting into something. Not to be what is needed for me to be,
but to be able to adjust— to adapt.
[Curtains. Cloudy. A tiny cut. Blood. Wind. Power went out.
Tangible hours. Mouth. Glass. Liquid. The taste of iron.]

Wait. Somewhere. I want to cry. I want to scream. Without needing to want it.
The hardest part is not the journey nor the decision to travel. It is destination.
[Awareness. Sunlight. A match. Some cigs. Bottles. No more.
I have the strange feel of water. Time.]

Under lights I must feel death on myself to quit being an actor
— have you ever questioned why is so unwordly hard to be yourself?
[A broken feel. Over and over. Go. Bones. Cold tiles.
Nothing. Elsewhere. Run. Walk. See you.]

A memory fills me with eletricity, my structures fall to pieces.
But I am in an apron.
And the hardest part is expectation and understanding.
I have someone to write to: there is no need for a big dream to dream big.

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