Had he been a magician, would he have cast a sunny spell in-between the cloudy maze above his head? The answer was as clear as the skies: gray, opaque, slowly drifting towards a direction and eventually a conclusion he didn’t know about yet.
It both fit him and upset him. He couldn’t get the scale’s pans to stabilize; irritation on one hand and dejection on the other, how was he supposed to find peace? A sigh left his lips, but as for he, he couldn’t leave. There was a storm outside and November mist on the inside.
And yet, as annoying as it felt, he had to get up, walk, keep on going. As annoying as it felt, he couldn’t help but resent himself yet call out to parts of his own heart he’d never gotten along with. Fake it till you make it. It all started with one step. An eager one, a rebellious one, a hesitant one, or even a saddened one. Slowly, surely. He couldn’t smile — not just yet. But he would, for sure. Time and time again. Through hail and heatwaves, feet aching, lungs burning at times. Surprisingly, lifting off is all about not letting go.
Still, he would go and meet himself there, on the sepia-colored bridge, and tell him he tried. And that it was enough. That he was enough. Someday, he would reach out.
He clenched the fist he’d extended above his eyes, somehow managing to catch anger, fear and unease inside. He couldn’t just leave them, huh? So until the day he could return them,
he thought that perhaps, he could just open the other hand.