Incognito

I'll go to the South Pole one day.
I'll watch the beautiful aurora with my benumbed body, dancing heart.

I'll sleep with a lost dog one day.
Where everything that I've ever wanted is owned by somebody else with their names deeply carved on.

I'll learn every single line of a longest epic poem one day.
I'll deeply embed my fleeting dreams and memories in every single word of it, to recite, to stand time.

Those questions and doubts are for themselves.
Just like an abstract painting that nobody understands.

And I am a painter.
I interfuse every word, every number, every face that I write, count and stare at.
I romp around on the puddle of diluted colours, wearing my favorite dress.

And I'm merely a dreamer.
When my ideals are imperfect, amorphous yet persistent.
So I beam at blind flowers, I write to illiterate doorsteps.

I've been sitting here, staring at the broken bridge across time.
And I'm not good at throwing things away, to send them far away.
And the words are too big, the scenes are too capricious, the people are too distant.

Then, I'll go home one day.
Where I don't have to read my name, where I don't have to speak their names.