When skies are always summertime blue...

It's quite the irony that the writer is unable to finish what is essentially just a longer layout of words. It's a special kind of hell knowing that you are capable of doing something, but unable to navigate the labyrinth of your own mind. Unable to direct your thoughts to put pen onto paper and just fucking finish what you started. That's why I'm not so secretly hoping to simply be derailed by something out of control. That way I can cling to the notion of being denied, instead of throwing in the towel. Not sure it makes a difference though, the ending is the same. Once again, the boy who wanted to fly, realizes that in fact, he does not have wings.

Anything he was...

Fires burn up canyons...

In my daydreams and fantasises I become timeless. I can stretch one breath to the infinite, nestle deep into that single heartbeat, and create something wondrously impossible. I can shape countless new worlds and live each of those imaginary lives to their fullest. As many lives as I want, and in any direction. But I don't know at what point that breath, that heartbeat, will reclaim me and transform everything I've built into forgotten dust. Not even a full memory, only a ghost of a dream, replaced by the incessant light demanding that my body adheres to a reality it so desperately wants to escape from.