He moves fast.
Fast past the blur of youth.
He has old eyes. Tired, old eyes.
Worn out of patience. Worn out of fun
He talks fast. Stammers often.
Too much he knows. So little time.
So he writes. Scenes. Chapters. Volumes.
He writes. Wanting to stay sane.
He yearns, daily. His cry, the same.
“Transform potential to example”
Yet, the mountain moves away, in his eyes.
With every step he takes, the mountain moves away.
He is underfed, physically and spiritually.
He once loved.
A long time ago, he once loved.
“What does love even mean?”
He often wonders in between keyboard strokes.
He never stops to consider, that the fault may be in his stars.
He moves into the night, fast.
Pitch black. Heavy sack. More hope than fact.
He has old eyes. He is an old soul.
Worn of insolence, he takes life by the horns.