I don’t have to be right all the time,
only on a few occasions do I have to be right,
being right in that narrow sense is good enough,
pretend, and the world pretends with you,
stop pretending, and nobody knows what’s going on,
being such a boorish person is almost second nature,
it feels like a big gesture to be considerate,
tried to not know myself,
but there’s too much I can’t hide,
carried too far on a rare ripple,
like a spider hanging on to a finger,
inefficient, indistinct, illegible, spilled over,
where would my experiences finally lie,
after all in the pages of a book?
seldom have I cried,
but when I did it was all worthwhile,
so little comforts me now,
there exists no lie which I cannot tell from truth,
in the graces of these musings I lie since long,
so little have I suffered,
and so little have I known,
opened my doors for the winds of change and more change to blow through,
and flew in so little that I had to catch it on my fingertips,
never was blue,
just transparent and broken into myriad hues,
divided into two,
light of day and dark of night,
my indecipherable dreams,
fly away they fly away.