Technicolour Impossible Dream

            TV trauma.

            Who really cares about the real world?

            I'd rather worry about people whose perfection lies in the fact that they were created to be the perfect versions of their flaws. I'd rather watch a coloured satire on a family far away than have to wait to see the black and white richness of my own. Why? Because waiting is uncertainty and because there's too much at risk without a script.

           

            I'd rather know the end vaguely than have to see the reality of innocence staring at me. Waking up knowing nothing and going to bed with a smaller portion of it. Comfort comes to me in small doses when you're happy, when there's nothing hurting your heart or nothing makes you cry. It's a mercy when I don't have to see you battling your age or when you're not disappointed with what you have.

 

            You're my unbending reality. You make it ok. Sparring and rebellion holds more risk for you than for me. But somehow I cannot stop thinking you're unbreakable, invincible and the one force I need to prove to that I know. And it really doesn't matter much so long as you believe in me at some point.

 

            You sniff out the moments that are crowding around my windpipe and there's no way my happiness could soar by your radars.

            You're precious. You're too precious.

            But you cannot make me not want my own version of the technicolour impossible dream.