I stand under the sun, yet I’m cold as ice.
I walk on the flatlands, yet I stumble, unsure of my feet.
There is beauty all around me, yet I see only stones, broken branches, and crushed flowers.
The wind caresses the trees and water, yet it strikes me as an arrow.
Music plays in every height, yet it falls deaf on my ears.
Something is wrong with me, I say, shivering. Then, No. Something is wrong in me.
If a soul is a bird, then mine is an ostrich- running endlessly, always searching, never flying or finding.