I never made touch with reality's sparkle, and never called it the grunting ground that holds so much treasures, cause i thought self-awareness, realization, and wisdom itself dwells in the same street, being good neighbors to each other.
Awareness itself is such a tutor
to people.
If i could finish the blurred edges of my mind using Athena's spear drenched in blood, and sift the souls that bury in it.
If i could hold the cotton skies itself and make clothes for the drenched, bloodstained, burnt, naked souls that is embedded in Athena's tattooed fingerprints.
If i could somehow, know reality's date of birth, i would write in grave fonts, cobblestone fingers, motionless, in the rural towns. Imagine if realization itself was a piece of linen, i would wrap it around my brain's naked body.
Pasithea has set another mission for me,
to grasp reality in my palms and look
at it's crippling reflection,
that reminds
me of
my
brother's
journal
and not
dream
of some
ecstasy
which
never even came
from a form
of seed,
or an old man's garden,
just made out of
nothing,
just like how
actions
structurize
the future
into
a botched manequin
of regrets.
Theodon has broke
my reveries
and
decided to
put
it on
a short 2-week
silence.
I never got to choose between
'watching the news' or actually
seeing what's happening cause
i thought
silence
and
isolation
itself
were roommates
that would
lead myself never
noticing reality's shine.
©sarah_
J