I miss the days when I knew nothing, nothing of the world and its pursuits. I miss being sheltered by the innocence of adolescent ignorance. Back then, every dream and aspiration was a guarantee. Every soft compliment was genuine, and every promise was a matter of time.
I miss the warmth of my mother on cold nights. Back then, she was alive and well, as real as the warmth of my own skin. It was a privilege to meet her, and even the ravens mimicked her lullabies. They took her away and left me with stories of theater. She is not real.
My ignorance is not so innocent anymore; my aspirations come with no guarantees. The warmth of my own skin burns as I turn violently in my sleep. No lullabies can still my waters.
With each full turn of blue, I know more than ever. For every hand that offers, there’s another hand waiting to receive two-fold. I’m not as I was – I just am. Stories of theater: I’m not real, but perhaps I once was.
Knomad Films° 