Minions! I come to you at the last possible expansion of the stitches that keep all my chocked mouths closed. Hope is at its essence a play with words, it adds a myriad of layers to every minor insignificant event in our lives, it makes signs out of every spoken word. Deflated hope is also one of the main reasons our hearts turn into a mess of shards as we grow older instead of the slippery smooth of their origins. I soar me up with no regard to the lack of any safety net, with no regard to the gleaming blades below, and even though there is no gravity inside, I spin around myself in so many loops that I create my very own gravitational centre, bringing me down from the height of hope to the stagnant pool of my blades, in the most pleasant excruciating pain my heart had ever squeezed through; pleasant with the temporarily undone knots, excruciating with all the new shards formed and remoulded into semi function. Minions, never before have you wanted out this bad, never before have I wanted you to be; yet now.... now I can barely keep you in, even with all the will power I can muster. I want to allow all my colours loose, be seen, judged even if I am to be found inadequate, this is the one time I can't fathom the possibility of another silent passing through! Minions, validate yourself, and in due time, you *will* be let fly to your callings as you please.
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