Spilled wine

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How many of my thoughts are just spilled wine? Promises of a future that became stains. They will always be there for me to remember who I was and the life I aspired. They come from a time where I used to think how much I had already accomplished. My young mind was impossible to break down, happiness was always present due to the promise of time. I looked to days to come like constellations high above in the night sky. What is there to find out? How long would it take me to get there? How small was I compared to them, how big can I grow?

“And everything I see through them is blurry and silent”

 

The roads back then were so long and wide, every tree along the way was so green, every bird flying along the car was so free, every sunset on the horizon was so beautiful. The air was softer on the skin, and it smelled of fresh paint on a canvas. Now I’m wiser. Now I’m sadder. My mother’s words echo in my mind. Words of contingency, of fear, of loss. We grow up to be cowards. I am now what someone else was before me. Spilled wine dried on the world’s sheet. Silent revolt of a repeated lie.

Could someone still see the fire within by staring at me?
How long would it take for that person to see anything?

I imagine myself on a black room seeing the world through the back of my eyes. They are two submarine windows, and everything I see through them is blurry and silent.
But beneath my feet, on that black room, I still feel the warmth, something is still there, an untouched river of emotions, waiting to burst through the crust of my fearful flesh. There is still hope that someday I will listen to my old songs with the same feeling I had when I first heard them. So many of us fear commitment because we feel it like a trap. So many of us get trapped on the trap of forever not having commitments.

So, what to do? Is it actually possible to be free?
What is in fact to be truthful to oneself?

“There is a time for memory, but that time is never the present”

To be immune to all the hateful opinions? All the hate we cast as adults is the replacement of our tears when we are children. Is freedom the act of letting something go or the act of holding on to something? I want to believe we can create something bigger than ourselves by setting ourselves free of the paths created naturally by the unnatural ways coursed by this old stagnated civilization. To perpetuate our existence by example. To show that something different is possible, our dreams are there for a reason. The stars are calling for us. Spilled wine is not worth mentioning, not worth to be remembered. There is a time for memory, but that time is never the present.

P.

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Have you ever felt that time is running out?
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4 thoughts on “Spilled wine

  1. Older, wiser, sadder. Indeed. I like a lot your metaphor of spilled wine — I’ve done my share of spilling wine–both metaphoric and literal. But I also know that the times that I imbibed the metaphoric wine of song, love, enjoyment, etc — those times when I didn’t “spill the wine” — those are memories worth keeping, even in the present.

    Like

    1. I’m happy you like it and you got completely what I was trying to say. Indeed, memory is important if it makes us smile. When I say that there is a time for memory, but it’s never the present, what I am trying to transpire is that we should not stagnate in the past, we should always keep striving for a better version of ourselves. Thank you again for your wonderful words!

      Liked by 1 person

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