Dare I dream and consider the idea that perhaps I don't belong in the backburner, like memories of an unsung ballad? Tease me with promises of a better fate: that there be a possibility for me to attain the same level of joy as the every man. Tease me as I march with the damned of the damned of our damned society. Whisper to my grey ears that I am allowed to dream. For what is hope but a silent killer? One that assassinates its targets in a single agile sweep. Do I deserve to dream of a worthy end? One with which you too could humour yourself as the sun sets and rises at each interval. Dare I ponder of the taste of freedom?
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I'm feeling awfully claustrophobic, in case you didn't get that. But most of all, I think I'm just writing shit down to make me feel better about my inability of producing actual thought.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
A most fascinating dare
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