I grew up in a concrete jungle. Glass was visible for miles on end, blending in with the sky, blinding my eyes. Over the years, despite staying in this sophisticated cage, my soul has slowly drained, and my strength has steadily waned. The city I grew up in no longer felt the same.

During the early days, what I experienced was akin to that of any other happy-go-lucky child. The playground was my camping ground, and the swing was my tent. I sought refuge in the adrenaline rush, willed myself to savour the moment (even when my body was oblivious, my mind knew time was precious).

All too soon, years passed and school started to take its toll. I no longer returned to the playground, and when I walked past it on the way to tuition class, I could feel my heart clench in yearning. Oftentimes now, I find myself up at night. Unable to sleep, my mind would wander to memories long past, memories that hold a taste sweeter than the lemons I'm fed with today. It fills my chest with the deepest sense of longing, of warmth, and of sadness.

Where did the time go? How scary it is. That as the years go by and the memories start to fade around the edges, though I would give everything to go back to the past, I still wake up every morning, numb to the lure of the past, and go on with my life, day by day.

Tears cascade in riverfuls, and I lay unmoving.

Thinking back to all the time lost.

Yearning to love, without a cost.

But if you were to ask, I would gladly answer.

Without a pause, no glimmer of remorse.

No, I do not regret loving, and I do not regret losing.

For a love that is lost symbolises the greatest cost of all,

of torn hearts and hopeless souls, cracked lips and glass fingertips.

Tainted only by the most fragile of nights, and the sharpest of spikes.

When everything didn't seem so impossible, and impossible was a cabinet a mere metre tall. When it didn't matter how hard or loud you laughed, how wide or deep you smiled. The last of its kind came as a common occurrence at the time.

The taste of sweet sweet candy lingered on my tongue, and my fingers were already reaching for another to pop into my eager mouth. I frolicked around, ran through the playground, slid down slides and bounced off the ground. It was a typical Saturday morning. The last of its kind. Little did I know that my world would be flipped upside down, and next Saturday would be full of frowns.

A dark cloud loomed over me, as if to warn of the rocky road ahead. Threateningly, the sky turned ashen grey.

But alas, all I cared about in that moment, was the sweetness that reminded me of all the treats that awaited me.

To the strongest, the worst is conferred.

But who decides when it all gets too much?

When weight translates to hate, and trauma translate to phobia.

What shall we do?

To soothe the welts of rancour, directed only at our own core.

How should we continue?

When the vistas of hope seem but a foolish trope,

and all that remains are our sunken souls.

Peaking through turbulent waves of cryptic pains

Sustained by belief that at times might seem but a fleeting reprieve

Whether forced or half-hearted it never fails to cheer the faint-hearted

So smile, for you never know if it might travel a mile

and give those who can't seem to cope, an incandescent glimmer of hope

perhaps, it could be said as such:

2 cups of experience

a tablespoon of knowledge (or will a teaspoon suffice)

1/3 cup of amusement

2 tablespoons of reality

a sprinkling of mundaneness (to soften the blow of)

3 cups of friendship

1/2 cup of mystique

4 tablespoons of time spent dreaming

and mayhaps, the most essential of all,

5 cups of naivety

for all that we do not know

is a thousand chances for all that could be

if it can be thought as much.

Perhaps we were

a match, doomed from the start

Confined to the chains that

so often felt like a comforting hug

We were so young

(oh so naive)

Oblivious to the demons

Drinking in our fears

Lapping up our tears

But even as our hairs turned grey

and our hearts broke into frays

Did we ever know better?

Was it ever worth more than a quarter?

Or had we merely been running

Forever on a chase for some treasure

In denial but still hoping

That one day, it would all get better

The pathos of nobility and distance, as I have said, the chronic and despotic esprit de corps and fundamental instinct of a higher dominant race coming into association with a meaner race, an 'under race,' this is the origin of the antithesis of good and bad.

- Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals