The Weebill

 It's not hard to see but the ignorance of the world is not so blissful. What once was something to obsess over has now become this distant and unreachable ball of fog. But you love fog. You love how daunting it looks from afar, and the uncertainty of what lies beyond it. You love how it disperses into beautiful little beads of nothing when you come close and yet somehow you feel encircled by a cold and familiar embrace. You’ve dreamt about it for years now and each time you wake up and find the sun shining it's face down on you, it makes you feel nothing. One would feel happy and full of energy, and wonder what more to ask for when the brightest stars are smiling at you from this vast horizon. But the light, it fades away. It brings a kind of darkness with it that merely promises of a new day. Nothing changes. Day after day, night after night. Dreams dreamt with eyes open wide turned into false hope for a heart that was empty inside.

You know better than to chase the fog. It’s not something you can touch or keep but it passes by each day, hugging you with a reassurance that it’s looking out. Listening. Watching you put on your sweater and pull up your socks on a cold winter morning, struggling to get the kettle going while managing a weak smile. 

You know better than to cling on, desperately trying to feel a blissful sense of transcendence free from the anguish inside your desolate heart. You remember every little detail that every ounce of your miserable being has tried to leave behind. The fear of merely crossing paths, sending waves of unresolved confusion and being unable to hold yourself together is what keeps you at a safe distance. 

You know better than to let the flame touch your stoical insides and let it reignite the same old desire, burning down everything but leaving soft glowing embers to thaw your freezing soul. It cannot be comprehended, the affliction of tearing your leaves apart from the bough that has already given in. The cloud of joy was yours for a while, and while it’s bizarre appeal made you smile your widest smile, it took away bits that left you crippled and confused, unable to go on. 

It’s the daintiness of the beautiful little dew drop that travels from leaf to leaf until it reaches a parched Weebill. While you resonate with the quench of the bird that meanders through arid land, you don’t realise that the dew drop that was once in your very possession has slipped through the spaces between your fingers when all you did was try to hold on.

Your misery grows each time you think about the plethora of possibilities that could be. Fleeting moments of immense happiness that painted your dull sky with every hue, seem distant yet fresh. You can neither run towards nor can you turn away. You can’t go on now. The only thing that keeps you glued is the realisation that it’s too late. It’s a pedestal that you have created where nothing else sits right. You only wish to touch the fog. You wish to burn with the flame. You wish the cloud would rain on you with a Weebill calling your name.