While the cynical weather was still flirting with this endless winter, birds inside me were getting hungry. I didn't have any food to make them sing. Thus those birds, that once were colourful and even had glossy feathers, started eating me from the inside. And yet I cannot find the way to make them stop.
It is one of those situations -- you spoil what you adore. Too much. You don't feel the limit or hazard at first. And after some time it turns back to you. Like a monster that you raised under the bed, feeding it with your veiled fears.
But why can't you make it work for you again? I am asking to myself. All that matters is me, I am the centre of it all. Music that needs words to get the vital spark.
'You can't rely on other people to make you happy', they say. And they are being correct in this and all of the other meanings.
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