Perhaps there is an idyllic world I do not know of.
Where love does not possess and hatred does not sting.
Perhaps it is idyllic made up of and for Beauty. Perhaps that is why I trample into it, uninvited.
The unwanted guest in the feast of life.
But is not trampling the only thing I have seen or felt or heard?
It is like waking up one fine morning to find strange footprints on your kitchen floor. Last night, you had your dinner at the kitchen table. Just in a night, your kitchen has become someone else’s.
Someone else who was not a guest.
Trampling into private beings.
Trampling into certain thoughts.
Walking all over the soul, like they say.
How quickly we forget the lessons of childhood: Speak less. Play more. Be shy.
Perhaps this is how water feels when ripples rock her. They cannot change her, nor irk her, but she is in unrest, in turmoil. How do you catch thieves of thoughts red-handed? How do you tell them, ‘let me be’ ?
My dreams are not on display. They are still young.
My soul still smiles-occasionally. How doyou make sure its smiles are not lost in floods of joy?
Perhaps that is why I still cannot believe in an idyllic world…
