Friday, 14 November 2014

walking over wet grass

At what point in life do we feel it's safe to say it's sorted. You know, we are good for life, life can't get any better. And that is the point you have achieved it all. Everything you will ever need and want is there, at arm's length.
Loved ones *touchwood* sitting all around, with the smile of content and giggle of secrets shared. 
Corporate slavery, doesn't seem so abysmal, opposite in fact. Where, at what age, is it all golden. 

Questions fill up my anyway cluttered head.   

I take off my slippers and stepped barefeet on the dewdropped grass. I lay there staring at the glaring moonlight in my face.   

I'm 23. And I'm golden. As I can be.  

I tilt my head. The dew shimmers in agreement.

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