On some days, I like to sit on the floor of our porch just reading a book, or maybe lay in my bed and blankly stare at the ceiling; some days I want to work on something and be relentless; some days I want to soak myself under the rain and feel the mist of the ground. Days and mood differ. I could color rainbows if I wanted to, but that was before.
I can’t stay still on my own will now, can’t run outside just because concrete walls suffocate me. I’m told to color a drawing with only two contrasting colors, which I don’t even get to choose. Reality is a luxurious prison. It’s an illusion of freedom where my choices boil down to what is being told by the norm set upon my mindset.
On some days, I just like to breathe the fresh, morning breeze. There are times when I long for a morning tea that doesn’t seem too rushed. Sometimes, I just want pastels and the smell of vanilla. For a moment, I just want to make this cage mine and let the grip around my neck loosen for a while.
— c // 180114
this is not a diary 