I used to think about future. I had a youth full of dreams. Those wasted memories are haunting me.
I wanted to be an awesome artist.
See? The lakes I didn't paint. See? The constellations I could see in the freckles of a stranger. See? All the wasted inspiration.
I wanted to raise a child, call her Glory, or Victory. But my life is such a lame, and I've dreamt in vane.
Now I'm more likely to be seen alone staring at a sunset, yearning for those hopes to come alive again and give me faith.
These dreams are gone.
Here I sit alone, not falling, not waiting, just giving life to the ashes of my heart.
I will never raise a child. I will never have Glory or Victory. I'm such a loser. I'm a mourner.
They will never understand why did I drink my hopes.
Wasting my watercolours in an everlasting hug, wasting my tears in a life I will never have.
