I need to keep believing,
ignore the adult wisdom,
become an exception.
I need to keep thinking that I can carve caves in a mountain of clouds,
sculpt bare-handed my own labyrinth, just tearing off pieces of mist.
I need to keep imagining entering this cotton palace.
Sometimes lock myself inside, where the light comes from everything and everywhere, and have a big breath.
Others play extreme chasing games sure that all is padded for your falls, and play hide and seek just covering yourself with fog and digging softness to find.
the Syndrome 