Oh, how we compare ourselves to caterpillars.
But it’s like the moths gravitating towards bright lights
then dying that we mimic.
How we tell children that dreaming is where happiness is made.
That when dreams come true,
wings unfold with unimaginable colors and take flight.
Yet, the lives of birds, insects and flowers are not so beautiful as we are told.
Every moment an instinct.
They are not joyful for their magnificence.
Our happiness on the other hand has the habit
of transforming like clouds to tears.
It’s not true that rain comes from the sky,
and rain is not falling to the ground.
Why do we lie to ourselves?
At the top, will the view will be enough?
From the top, there is only room for one,
looking down,
looking down.
From the top,
there is
only
looking
down.
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