A soft breeze caressed the eastern face of the cliff-side, and a young man, barely into adulthood, crept out into the blackness, wondering how he had come to where he was now. It seemed odd, after being one so in-charge throughout his adolescence, that he would be so lost; so lost, and still completely in love with the one fleeting bit of his past he wished would both disappear and return to him.
He dreamed often. They were vivid, lucid dreams that felt more realistic than even waking life.
But who is to say what was real? That was the only question that began to matter, when time took its slow-turning blend into malevolent mindsets.
You raise up your head and ask,
“Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says,
“It’s his!”
And you ask,
“What’s mine?”
And somebody else says,
“Well, what is?”
Oh my god, am I here all alone?
Life came fast, and will probably leave just the same. But so far all is fleeting, and feeling maimed. Though one thing he is sure of, our hero the artist, is that it is.
He dreamed often. They were vivid, lucid dreams that felt more realistic than even waking life.
But who is to say what was real? That was the only question that began to matter, when time took its slow-turning blend into malevolent mindsets.
You raise up your head and ask,
“Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says,
“It’s his!”
And you ask,
“What’s mine?”
And somebody else says,
“Well, what is?”
Oh my god, am I here all alone?
Life came fast, and will probably leave just the same. But so far all is fleeting, and feeling maimed. Though one thing he is sure of, our hero the artist, is that it is.
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