Metamorphosis

i] vanitas

individuality

if i could be a human being, i'd wish to evolve my mind into a heart soaked in kindness, and i'd nurture it with the truth of my existence till its valves begin to overflow with the most altruistic words the human ear could ever capture. i would continue to let this piece of fragile flesh sprout tiny buds of empathy throughout its arteries and let it grow under the sunshine that gently filters through the branches of my mind. and maybe one day, i would finally find the soul that'd fit in this mortal vessel of transitioning choices and fatal failures, only to embrace the elegance of growth, the beauty in the beliefs of the beholder.

ii] carpe diem

diversity

if i could belong to a planet as true as its soul, with azure skies and cerulean seas, amber sunsets and blushing dawns spilling into dreams, deep midnights wiping out despair and dispersing rainbows blending in a new shade; maybe i would try to wish for something more than just eternal slumber, maybe i could ask to touch the stars that drive my soul into the abyss, embrace the moon in its utter loneliness, lie down on an abandoned island of drifting asteroids and friends. maybe i could rewrite the language of love with a darker shade of ink, may be i'd ask for a purple one or just something not red.

iii] memento mori

in the middle of it all, yet nowhere

if i could be, just be, not you nor me, nor anything that any relationship defines me to be, not a child to parents, not a student to teachers, not an employee to employers, not a friend to people i have to fake a smile to, not a soul mate to someone i can never meet. if i could just be a little more than what i need to be and a little less than what i should be, maybe then i could find who i should be in this plethora of descriptions and infinity.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.

Rumi

Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their ions a quotation.

Oscar Wilde, De Profundis