When will we wake up to life? When will we shut it down? Every moment we have is either a birth or a death. We have it; we own it. Which story will we tell today? Our words will either resurrect or bury. Choose wisely.
And the world took on a different shape. The colors both bled and stood out. I stepped off of the curb and into a universe controlled by the hands without a body, without a face. They were hands that held a minute's worth of sand. They were hands that had no life line, a fortune teller's conundrum. They were hands with bones already dreaming of being bleached by the sun.
Is this the way to waking up? Or have the arrows been switched by a trickster waiting for me to step off course so they can of course devour my insecurities. Is this it? Or this? The questions can't help because I am only here for the answers. But I keep asking. But I keep expecting a detailed map.
The road is unpaved. It doesn't matter because I don't have a car. Concrete hurts my feet anyway. I better keep standing here or maybe walk on occasion. The view is so nice right here. What's it like over there?