I think it’s funny how the universe works. How instead of giving us what we want, it grants us what we deserve. When we look back, we see that we had no idea what we wanted from the beginning.
I think it’s funny how strangers become friends, friends that turn into lovers. That we blink and see people for the first time, yet they were there all along, walking in the shadows. Perhaps we met, in the grocery store, but the apples were too full that day, or we passed each other at the train station, too excited to be with our friends. Maybe life was unbearable at the time and so we hoped…
Then one Sunday morning, we see each other for the first time, and everything changes. We start to wonder, how we had been so blind. Life starts becoming fuller and we forget that as easily as we turn into lovers can be as we fall back to being strangers.
I think it’s funny how we have hope even if the world mocks us. We die countless times just to return to ourselves. It’s part of being human, they call it the art of losing and finding yourself over and over again. Yet, it seems that everything has an ending and we ask, when it comes to the end, will we still be searching, or will we have found our way home?
So, to live with the cruelty is to accept that we can hope. Delusions, we call it, that it is ridiculous that things work out for us. Then the lovers turn back to be just friends, and when we open our eyes, they are just strangers once more. How unfair, we think. How unfair it feels to dream. Because the first time our skins brushed, I was drifting with the stars, the burning embers in the sky. And now when our eyes meet, the emptiness reminds me of the uncharted depths of the ocean. But I still hope…
Reality picks us up once more, but now we live with weights in our chests. Our bodies sagged and our eyes lowered to the ground. We hope not to hopelessly see again but sadly, they are all we see. We keep searching for them in crowds that they have no reason to be a part of.
I think it’s funny how time flies. How the emotions and all the things we wanted to say dissipate. Now there is nothing left but memories soon to fade. It’s funny how our mind stays like an artist’s canvas, a poet’s draft, raw, and too poignant. But once it was blank and needed to be filled, now it overpours but how can we regret it?
Maybe, it was just what we deserved.
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