My crystal dream box

Deep inside, somewhere I am losing my individuality;

My identity.

I can see my so-called precious dreams breaking inside that glass vase.

But I can do nothing.

I am just staring and doing nothing.

Nothing.

I am not me anymore.

I am behaving like someone else.

Doing things that often others do.

Sympathizing and consoling for my own failure.

Standing still and watching the tragedy to occur.

Actually, I am being a dead body.

A dead body with warm blood,

With eyes blinking,

With pulse beating

But a dead body still.

Where is the actual me?

If I was here, I won’t be like this sympathizers or dead bodies.

I would run towards my crystal box, shedding tears.

I would hold the box so tightly that,

It has to accept defeat

And stop itself from breaking.

Even with this constant effort of mine, if my dream box breaks,

I would gather each broken piece.

While doing so,

I may get wounded.

Red blood may be bleeding out.

But I need to fix it out.

Suddenly, the world became gigantic.

So were the people.

But me, I was still the same.

Standing at the centre,

The whole world around me mocking, laughing, hurting…

I was shutting my ears,

Closing my eyes,

My wounds bleeding,

Draining blood,

Screaming louder and louder and....

At last, even the last breath was taken.

I was gone.

Still the enormous things were doing their job

Mocking, staring, laughing…

As they were operated to do so.