Don’t worry about the boy

A boy who loved broken roads.

A man loved the boy for he bore the burden

Of walking down the road for him.

The boy knew nothing of the horrors that lingered

Behind those familial faces.

The man knew precisely what the boy lacked.

The boy got burnt

The man bore the mark, a little less than forever.

They wear the same clothes

With the same tears and missing buttons.

The boy loved reading adventure

He was happy, at least when he wasn’t bored.

The man loves reading fiction.

A vicarious life. A longingness.

He loves dystopia, a world he would struggle in.

But never have to face, hopefully.

He is happy, at least when he isn’t awake.

The boy dreamt about lost friendships reconciling,

Water colours and parties filled with ice creams.

The man dreams now and then.

It might resemble traffic lights to an outsider.

Too much red, screaming sometimes

Green that disappears in a quick clock tick

Yellow that flickers and matters to none.

All dropped against a pixelated dark canvas.

The boy wanted to travel everywhere and everywhen

The future he’ll wear once it fits,

The past that he remembered in bits,

The present that had more misses than hits.

Become a spectator that watches his life play out and plan his wits.

The man can only bears the present

Close to the pillow that absorbs his thoughts.

Distance is frightening, but the lack of it mortifies him.

Is the man living the boy’s dreams ?

Question the boy and cross the man.

“Sometimes it feels like I am at the bottom of a well.

Everything seems dark except the unreachable.” The man said.

The boy wished the man haunted him, directed him

Told him the plot

The man knew about the bear traps and fishnets

The boy could’ve been saved from the injury.

Empty house, a variable.

Faulted conscience, the constant.

Recurring visits, the result.

The boy became habituated to disappointments

The boy became habituated to the man

The boy became the man.

‘The boy is now more adapted into memory like an

Idea than have an essence that aged with time like an experience.’

3:14

The boy should be asleep

Three-four teens

A friendship so deep

Let’s not worry about the man.

He said he’s doing fine without them.

The truth is, the man is better off.

He loves reading fiction

It births in him a thrill for life

He loves dystopia

A reference to gauge how better the present is.

He is happy at least when he isn’t.