Written within.
Calling afar.
Unspoken. Unending.
Laying again, facing the stars. A thousand spears thrusting. An illusionary impalemant that always feels so real. I've thicken my skin for ages. I've gained love and i've lost so little. I've gotten to enjoy the road, to find places to call my own. I've met enough stars to form constelations. Stars the seek me, as much as I seek them. And still, I'm afraid of the light as much as I am of the dark. Never showing too much. Always escaping. Ever under a mask, a cover or a cloak. Smiling. Nodding. Silent. I thought I had leart enough on the road. I thought it was okay, laying in the dark with my little precious stars. I was above the others. Better and self-sufficient.
But the ceiling broke, new stars shining again. It felt so good to soar into the light. But everytime I fly (every single time), those damned spear pin me down again into the cold ground.
Laying again.
Facing the stars.
Unable to move. Unable to try.
