wb :

Getting there would take a while, when you're running your paws off. It's a cycle, from dawn to yawn, bed to bed, kiss and tell. With fluctuation comes monotony, it's in anomaly and concerted variation that breakthroughs come forth. Saving the world, climbing Babel high enough to hear the choir is a lovely idea, but as you climb higher and higher, you'll find that the ladder sinks beneath your feet, maybe faster than you climb, you'll also find the sweet tinkly laughter of the stars, and the delight of Mars as he nonchalantly goes in Virgo's court.

How does it feel, way up there? Up in space, where no-one hears your cape flutter. Maybe up there where things are as cold as you are, you'll find home. Maybe it's because you're so high, because no-one hears your song, you can sing all you want without the underestimated danger of interpretation. Idiot; when you've seen the planets' singing,

can't you see them fade into silence?

I can see that it's just another discrepancy. You want results, you want games, you want your childhood, you want up, you want out. I'll just have to swallow my ambition and lose my head remembering the echo of your guitar. Nothing to worry about, even up there, even if frostbite pinches your face like a butcher at a slab of pork, you'll pull through. Because you're strong, because you're a big damn hero.

Labels: prose