So much
of what we have can be stolen. Things that we may not bother fighting back for;
things that we don't know have been/can be taken from us.
A friend almost got mugged last week. Almost, because he managed to fend off the assailant, while sustaining physical injury. We fight back, when what at risk is valuable and precious. When it's ours. Why is it then, that we let our minds wander so easily, letting songs pervade them and linger, pushing out all other things that strive to leave their mark. All the while not knowing that we've already lost the fight to the thief of our mind space.
We can't control who steals our hearts, nor can we prevent them from being taken. Impressions are formed, words are uttered, acts are done, and people become familiar. Eventually, their company fits us like a glove. They keep us warm, protect us from nakedness, and become a second skin. Our hearts have been stolen.
Our will is our weapon. Only when it has been defeated can we say it has been lost. Unknowingly stolen, sometimes. Fought with and lost, most others.
Lying in bed at night. Eyes opened, eyes closed, no difference. It's hard to tell what's real and what we're imagining if both canvases look the same. Consciousness gets stolen by fatigue, not so much like a thief in the night, when we most want it to, but very much so when we don't. Resistance is futile.
Dreams. What some may feel are worth brutally fighting for. In a paper-chasing society, I only hold blank sheets; for the things that are not 'valuable' in society's eyes, for the things I feel are not 'worthy' enough to be constituted as achievements, for the things I have yet to accomplish because I'm at crossroads. Attempting to stray from the ways that society dictates is possibly like using language in a way that doesn't impose gender (as a linguistics student, you learn that this is in fact a lot more challenging than it sounds).
Minds get stolen by songs;
Hearts get stolen by people;
Will gets stolen by temptation;
Consciousness gets stolen by fatigue;
Dreams get stolen by expectation.
How much of what is a part of us, is in our conscious hold.
A friend almost got mugged last week. Almost, because he managed to fend off the assailant, while sustaining physical injury. We fight back, when what at risk is valuable and precious. When it's ours. Why is it then, that we let our minds wander so easily, letting songs pervade them and linger, pushing out all other things that strive to leave their mark. All the while not knowing that we've already lost the fight to the thief of our mind space.
We can't control who steals our hearts, nor can we prevent them from being taken. Impressions are formed, words are uttered, acts are done, and people become familiar. Eventually, their company fits us like a glove. They keep us warm, protect us from nakedness, and become a second skin. Our hearts have been stolen.
Our will is our weapon. Only when it has been defeated can we say it has been lost. Unknowingly stolen, sometimes. Fought with and lost, most others.
Lying in bed at night. Eyes opened, eyes closed, no difference. It's hard to tell what's real and what we're imagining if both canvases look the same. Consciousness gets stolen by fatigue, not so much like a thief in the night, when we most want it to, but very much so when we don't. Resistance is futile.
Dreams. What some may feel are worth brutally fighting for. In a paper-chasing society, I only hold blank sheets; for the things that are not 'valuable' in society's eyes, for the things I feel are not 'worthy' enough to be constituted as achievements, for the things I have yet to accomplish because I'm at crossroads. Attempting to stray from the ways that society dictates is possibly like using language in a way that doesn't impose gender (as a linguistics student, you learn that this is in fact a lot more challenging than it sounds).
Minds get stolen by songs;
Hearts get stolen by people;
Will gets stolen by temptation;
Consciousness gets stolen by fatigue;
Dreams get stolen by expectation.
How much of what is a part of us, is in our conscious hold.
