I am falling, falling, falling down, swaying my hands for help in vain.
I know that I have my own buoyancy, the only force that could lift me up, higher above than I could have ever imagined. Yet, I am clueless why I hesitate to use it. May be I am lazy, may be this is easy, yielding myself to gravity. I have been told I can’t fly. I have been told I ought not to rise. And those words are tied like an invisible stone round my neck.
So here I am, vainly seeking those hands, those whose touch I have relished in the past, of those whose only shadows remain at last.
My grey cells, fogged with some pinkish hue, they have happily stopped functioning for a long time now.
Thus remain I in a false bliss, falling, falling, into a great abyss.
