I don’t know what was with him? A sad face always welcomed me with a warm smile, but it felt so plastic, that I could hardly connect.
He was just always lost in his own, staring at the skies, at the waters, and the railroads. Like he wanted to go somewhere, but something was stopping him. Something was chaining him down to his room, and it was heavy to break free, so much so that he never left his room.
He was the only rotten flower in the field of blossoms, like the cloud in the sky full of stars, like the only dark spot under the bed in a room full of lights, a cold breeze slipping under the warm scarf.
He never was the glow of the room, always the dark corner. I don’t know what kept him so sad, and so tied up, when he can just walk out and get what he wants.
I guess it was not the dream he was afraid of, but himself. I guess it was not the confidence he lacked in his dreams, but the faith that he lacked in himself.
I guess it was not the sky after all, but the plane, and not the railroads but the trains, and not the waters but the ships.
I guess it was not the weight tying him down, but himself.