I lost my rhythm whilst I waded through muddy waters by the banks of the sea of experience for pearls to brighten my nervous walk on my eroded path. I had to shed my skin so many times that I cannot tell anymore if it is living flesh or dead skin that I stretch out of, anytime I reincarnate into another version of myself.
These fragmented pieces of my identity are like wholrs of a fingerprint in their lazy yet seductive curves, each incomplete without the next. Each complementing the other to build an apparition of my true self.
But sometimes ghosts achieve more than men. Sometimes what we need is a dream and not the broken edges of reality opening wounds in our calloused palms. Sometimes what we need is to fall, whilst ignoring the knowledge of the eventual pain.