same.

This time last year I was sitting on the same chair, looking at the same scenery, creating the same dream. Everything was the same but with a different functioning heart. It was alive, I think. It was glad. It was genuinely inspired. It was torn between staying and going. It tried hard to resurface. It tried really hard. Now though, that heart is dust. It’s graying and decaying. It has gained somewhat a kind of freedom that frightens; that scars. It’s confused and almost drowning. Nonetheless, it’s still trying. Trying really hard to beat, to give, to go.