There's a time when we feel so drained by something we don't even realize. We feel like everything is so heavy until there is no more space for us to vent. Everything just happens. Everything is just... emotionless. We have our glory, our victory, right in our own hands. We have everything, we do know everything, don't we? It's that crystal clear, until everything becomes nothing more than a passing blur. We can choose to be a victim in our own unwanted situation, our breaking moments, yet we dance. We use our chaos as a stage for our grave.
The music plays so well, not because it's our taste, but because it's life playing it to us. Whether it's a song about an honest mistake, something broken, or the bitterness of life, we just don't have control over our life's song. Yet, we can still dance, choosing our movements. So throw whatever it is, we'll dance. Even if it's not, we'll dance anyway. We'll always be the one who celebrates it with the rhythm of our own body. Even if the song that's playing is our surrender moment, we'll dance anyway.
Going to see what the rain looks like, what kind of storm is hitting today, even though we already know, even if everything is ruined, or the weather today is a total mess, or the lamb we've been waiting for ends up leaving, right in the middle of that road, we'll just take shelter and watch everything happen as it is, we'll dance anyway.
We keep filling and filling, we know the size, exactly how big the whiplash is. It's our mechanism to keep living, by switching the autopilot to 'on' to block out every short-circuiting moment in our brain. Our filling area is our own object, our own asset. We don't even think about the problem of it being too full, we're just confused about why it feels so empty. Yet we keep filling it up, and it's not about the hole. There is no hole. Not a single one exist. We do know. We did. The absurdism and inconsistency just force our eyes to see something different, the color, the same tone, the field of white flowers. What is it? We'll just dance on fate.
We were fated to capture the 'victories' that others spend lifetimes praying for, yet we remain an unreadable script, complicating the simplest paths because we don't even know the author in the mirror. We have conquered it yet lost our own definition, a hollow king, so carve my existence from your own silence, what name do I write on the void, what color do I paint on your empty sky?
Used 'we' throughout this piece just so it wouldn't feel so entirely alone, to keep it from feeling too real, that these lines are actually just... me, at the end.
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