¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯Ҕσω, нσω αм ℐʂυρρσʂєם тσ ғєєʟ?
Ψнєи єvєячтнιиɢ ʂυяяσυиםιиɢ мє
ℐʂ иσтнιиɢ вυт α ғαкє םιʂɢυιʂє?
Waking up is always the hardest part.
Not matter what you do, no matter what you want, you always have to wake up. You can't be happy forever; can't live in dreams. So you're stirred from half-remembered, half-fabricated memories; memories of the one you once loved. There's that first groggy moment of panic as you're drenched from the lagoon of sleep, then a horrid, suffocating sense of loss as your fantasy is dragged away from you once more. It's like sand slipping through your fingers: the more you try to hold on, the more you loose.
This fantasy; it's brittle. It can be shattered just as easily as glass: one noise, one sound, and it's gone, and you wake. This grief as you wake is just as real as the first time; the first time you realised that he really had gone, that there is no way back from death. You cry rivers for him, a deep ache resounds in you that can never be filled. You want no one but him.
But it's the oldest story in the book: the one you want you cannot have. You're with him in your dreams; you run your fingers through his hair like silk, feel the tickle of his breath on your bare skin, taste him. But as sleep fades so does his taste, his memory.
¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯ℐ ɔαи'т ʂтop тнє яαιи ғroм ғαʟʟιиɢ,
ℐ'м םяoωиιиɢ ιи тнєʂє тєαяs ℐ ɔяч.
Ϩιиɔє чσυ ʟєғт ωιтнσuт α ωαяиιиɢ,
ℐ ғαɔє тнє םαωи ωιтн ʂʟєєpʟєʂʂ єчєʂ.
You know that it's fickle; these dreams and wrong and yet so right. Your loss is so great that you'd do anything; you do not care whether it is merely a screen for you to project your desires onto. These dreams aren't real, darling.
Everyday you wake and the coldness claims you; the darkness curls itself around your heart. Everyday you repeat a mantra to yourself: you can do this. But night returns and you seek refuge from reality in dreams.
And then, darling, then you have to wake up
In the middle of the streets, a figure was dancing with headphones on, his feet gliding and cross-overing what seemed to be invisible wires, the cheery beat he heard was portrayed as he moved around. At times he'd peer open one of his eyes to see where he was going and if there are people in the way, also to check out the weird surrounding he had woke up in. Naturally, one doesn't just dance when they find themselves left alone in an unexplained world, though for this boy, he could easily adapt to most anything, but if there's nothing constant for that moment, it might all fall apart.
¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯Ϩσ, тєʟʟ мє ωнєяє ℐ ωєит ωяσиɢ?
ℐ'м ʂтυɔк ιиʂιםє α םяєαм ʟσиɢ ɢσиє.
ℐт'ʂ нαяם тσ яєѵєaʟ тнє тrυтн...
____________________________________The words are on your lips...
Let them linger× × × × Pau Momoshi ▀▄