Dandelions

Life is the colour of dandelions. Life spurts like one of them. And everything is fast. Everything seems to happen at unbelievable speed. We grow out, we grow up, we grow lonely, we grow old, we grow faint and, all of a sudden, there is death. Death is always right there in front of us, only we prefer not to see and cowardly avert our look. It is the only certain gift we are given in life since the gift of birth. A dignifying act to some. Imposed on us, as I see it. After all, a gift is a gift, you can’t return it, and nobody asks you weather you want this one in particular. But it is just an act, since regarding it as the path through which we achieve dignity does no other than render life vain.
Then there is fear. Panic. Panic of solitude. Solitude is the best worst companion to us.
Some people’s lives are so futile that they may come to face their fate not knowing that life was the colour of dandelions.

Me

I was born on my favourite day / I have my mother’s nose and my father’s skin / My eyes are brown and they used to seem to dance / I nibble at the skin around my nails / I smoke on a regular basis / and even more when I’m upset / I don’t know as much as I would like to know, but it’s enough to get by / I used to love Christmas / someday I might give up smoking / and nibbling at the skin around my nails / I may never like Christmas again / but someday perhaps my eyes will seem to dance again