Old bicycle days, music played on tape recorder,
Trump cards, afternoon cricket sessions.
That first preschool crush makes you smile.
You are simply at your best without intelligence,
You feel life when you erase all knowledge for a while,
You dance with the private wind for a moment,
You are little young again.
Everyone is tired, sulking still fighting for survival. Your words look irrelevant, you suddenly forget everything. Your mind becomes numb, your blank face reappears.
You have no words left, you face an eternal crisis. The rudiments of your mistaken past linger on. You forget to smile, you forget about the world that ever existed in your life, you become a lost soul, you fail to deliver, you silently laugh at yourself, you say no word, and you just keep walking. You become the famous escapist.
You never forget to praise loneliness, you feel like a shadow in a gathering. Sometimes you become fanatical, sometimes the hysteria totally engrosses your mind, you die every night, and those big tear balls never abandons your eyes.
Slowly everyone around you vanishes, you no more see that old bicycle, you forget your pre school crush, and you no more fly. You keep gazing at the stars that no more flickers.
You close your eyes, inhale fresh air, stop typing, and go back to your arm chair to weave another tale. You decide to walk ahead along the tide; you know there’s a life without intelligence waiting outside where you have no restrictions, where there are green pastures, where you have a perpetual license to fly…
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