The earthy smell of my sack did not do a very good job of hiding the post office’s odour. I have been inside the sack for certainly longer than I was supposed to be, and nothing can be done about it. After all, I’m just a letter addressed to nowhere. There’s a licence of a fifty-year-old, a greeting from a child who will soon learn about the postal system and many others. For times rooted in the speed of delivery, the oldest method surely is the slowest one. The sole reason for its survival is its ability to connect dots that aren’t on the revised map, and yet some people do not value these connections. What are connections anyway? Among the various mates I’ve encountered in this sack do not lie a letter bringing home the return of a hero, or one bringing eternal love. Eternal love is now just calling each other and arguing endlessly about “liking” something. Or at least that’s what I could tell, because my postman hasn’t untied my knots to freedom yet. The place they’ve stacked me sm
A muse of now or A memory of tomorrow Both seem amusing Greeted with sparkling eyes Yet one sparkles with joy And other a nostalgic sorrow. Is it because it ended? Or does time even matter? Only time can answer For itself, and for others. Are joy and sorrow The binaries of the emo world? Or are all humans compulsive, To classify their deepest memories? Is it because they might go away? When the bouncy ball no longer bounces Do you not remember your tiny head Following the ball with a heart? A heart that did not know Of sorrow or joy Of pain of remembrance Or the joy of forgetting Is that heart a memory now? A happy one I hope, And if it is You're lucky.