Arcadia

43

There's a poem I've been trying to finish since yesterday. It's sitting around in my notes, just words and stolen metaphors on a thread of thought, forced and recycled and sticky on the edges. That's all I do these days, collect metaphors and string them together. I should finish it, sometime.
But fuck that, honestly. I don't feel poetic tonight. I feel unapologetic and petty, I have been scouring gossip websites all day and my head is a little heavy. I have finals in a week and I should be more stressed but I'm not, really. I feel uneasy, on edge. Am I losing out on reality? I feel like I am. I haven't felt real in so long, so so long.
I found a bunch of old love letters the other day. I cringed at the thirteen I was, and I hoped I could love like that again, just once more. I found a letter I wrote to my best friend too, I clicked a picture and sent it to her, and she sent me a pumping heart in return, and we laughed at the bygone years that shredded off our innocence and our school uniforms, as our skins changed it's colour to youth. It's easy, slipping into roles, but I've learnt to love her better since then. I changed my lock-screen, and prayed for a change, even though I'd stopped believing in both changes and prayers years since.
There's a long list of movies that I've been planning to watch but I am not even half through yet. There's so many things that I'm planning for. Unnecessary things. Meaningless things. I have a hoarde of cheap romances piling up on my bookshelf, I will get through with them once I am done with my exams. I will get through the movies too. And I will finish that painting from last year, the one with the unpainted sky that has been in my drawer collecting dust for months. And the poem. Of course, the poem.

There's something so poetic about unfinished paintings and unpainted skies, don't you think?