I’m not a fortune teller, I won’t be bringing news
Of what tomorrow brings, I’ll leave that up to you
I’m not a fortune teller, don’t have a crystal ball
I can’t predict the future, can’t see nothing at all…
I wonder sometimes, about fleeting things.
Sitting calmly and musing over tranquil thoughts on the top floor of a double-decker bus, watching tall foliage and even taller skyscrapers rush past my awe-stricken eyes, I’m basking in the excited beating of a foreign heart, a dearly beloved stranger, familiar yet unknown, warm blood palpitating fervently in a buzz of amalgamated emotions and hundreds of footsteps on the worn-down pavement. Yet I feel for my chest with a fluttering hand and find that mine seems to be dulled down into a quiet languor.
I dream of the future. And I dream of returning.
But the future tastes like a distant impossible nowhere—very much like this city that I’m currently traveling past—when the hands of my clock are still stubbornly stuck on the eleventh hour. I’m a broken compass with faded directions, and I’m never sure where the gravity is pulling the pointer towards, until I find myself lost without a second thought. I can’t ever be certain if there was even a north, south, east, or west in the first place. Maybe it’s just me and one big unfathomable plane of existence with no directions, no places to go, only nothing. And nowhere.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where to go.
I want to carry on despite all my crippling doubts paralysing my broken legs, but the crashing ocean is my tongue is salty and deep, and the nightingale has ceased warbling melodies in my throat. I think of could-have-beens and come-what-may’s, and I try to make it sound comforting instead of terrifying, try to convince myself that I’m going in a path that I intended to cross, and I’ll make it somehow. I attempt to wrap myself around the steady beat beat beating of this stranger they call a city, and I let the static sounds and captivating lights cradle me into its metropolitan lullaby. This is only one of the million strangers I have yet to make acquaintances with. And only a fraction of my time.
And I dream of hope. And I dream that someday, I don’t have to dream anymore.
The future is fleeting. But, perhaps, I might just have one.
This feeling keeps growing
These rivers keep flowing
How can I have answers
When you drown me in questions?