The sky stretches out forever here, wide and empty, like it’s daring me to fill it with something real. But nothing seems to stick. We drift through life, chasing thrills, drowning our thoughts in whisky, distractions, anything to dull the edges. It’s funny how we used to have all the time in the world—no rules, no limits. Back then, we didn’t realize how quickly everything would start slipping through our fingers.
I keep thinking about those “Seven Sleepers” from old stories, hiding away from the world, only to wake up and find it completely changed. I feel like I’m in that state too, half-awake, half-asleep, watching life blur by but never fully grasping it. Maybe that’s the trick: we’re just spirits in disguise, pretending we understand the game we’re playing. But the truth is, the rules were never taught to us, and we’ve been improvising from the start.
Endless skies, endless games—no words are enough to explain this feeling inside. It’s like trying to catch a glimpse of something just out of reach, always moving, always fading. Maybe that’s what we’re really chasing, not success or love, but something that justifies the restlessness, the constant desire to fly away from ourselves. But we keep wasting time, making pledges we don’t keep, rolling out the spool of our lives without knowing what the final pattern will look like.