Remember when we were young and nobody knew how, when, where we were going to die. When running through fields that kept our feet busy felt like the blessing of the wind singing in our ears. When the sun peeks out to judge how much we need it before wrestling the clouds for hearts that can’t bleed in the shade. How the noise of thunder dictated the hours left as if alarms were made to tamper with plans.
What is the formula for the sweetness of moments that piled up gold — withered for wet eyes and the consumption of time. You couldn’t wait to sleep so you could mount the dailies in technicolor while charming the script with extra weight.
The stories you will tell can inch closer to the dreams of the self you created on the bed — in the room where nothing happened except the sheets of words that were meant to distill anything that would kill your happiness.
Yet — here you are in another bed with the words that you can’t conceive and the vows that were broken when you accepted your happiness.
Nothing was supposed to drown your happiness.
Yet — here you are. Without happiness. You are alive. And that’s compulsory.