A cake made of flour and salt, honey and vinegar, caramel and ginger.
An incongruent mix of my routine
Makes me smile with a shrug and sigh with hopeful resignation.
Time adds layers, weathering me against my will.
Inevitable like the rings seen at the cut of a tree trunk,
Giving away its age.
In principle, I can run into the woods,
Dance wildly around a campfire,
Singing at the top of my lungs to let the flustration out.
(Oh what I would give for a strong vibrant voice of Mariza).
I can live the life of a dream,
Surrounded only by air and light, music and art,
Love and liberty.
The computer screen smirks at me,
Incredulous at these words typed on its surface.
The world is made of walls, schedules, lists,
Receipts, bills, contracts, memos,
All weaved into the fabric of the neat
Order of the 24 hours of the 7-day weeks.
I have two choices: rebel and send it all to hell,
Paying the consequences of the vain attempt
To break free.
Or sing. The best I can. And play in the waves, letting the warm waters
Carress my naked body, making me new again.
And jump into a pile of fallen leaves.
Make sketches in the sand of the most recent daydream.
So what if it disappears with the next wave.
I can always make another.
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