And the stories are never different.
We are always suffering from a fever
And mumbling the same lines
Over and over and over again.
Some days the temperature runs high
And we start picturing
All those little things we always wanted
All those unkept promises
Then there are the days when
This fever puts us in a bizarre numbness
When we can’t feel, we can’t touch.
Every hand feels the same, every eyes watery
All the birthmarks
Bearing the same stories of some last life.
And we keep repeating.
We keep chanting.
Losing our sanity every day
Yet trying to grasp the meaning of it all.
And failing all the more.