All we do is wait.
All we do is trip over someone else's shoes. We dance, and we forget. The dryness of every other day. But then the music stops and the steps grow farther from each other and our heads become heavy with thoughts again. We have no shape. We absorb our surroundings, sink into what's ahead of us. Or what's behind. We rely on memories to carry on. With the hope that something as grand as that time you laughed so hard, or that afternoon you felt you really belonged, or that night you spent in that other person's arms, or that morning you watched the sunrise with friends you really got to know during the few past hours, or that evening you wrote or read or saw something so incredibly pure and relevant and touching, will occur. What is there to do to believe that we can still rave about the future? It is the present that fades us all. That overrides us. Because tomorrow might be good. Might be great. But between this time and the lust one, deserts arise. There is no perfect state. We long for more, regret what there was. We crawl towards water that will leave us like anything but replete, in the end. Our bodies turn into sore ensembles, tired silhouettes.
All we do is repeat the same tune over and over. False prayers to make it seem less hard. Or to make it appear more awful. We push deadlines, delay necessities. So we don't have to face the task of living up to expectations. We detest obligations, create diversions and avoid choices. We are lame. We hide inside chests made out of wood and velvet, we sleep to let it all slip away. We lie, we paint, we draw. To cover ourselves, to conceal ugliness, to wrap the truth and leave it on a shelf. The highest one. We are scared, but not worried anymore. We are waiting. We are out of our minds, out of our souls. We are referring to ourselves as "we" only to feel less alone.