He hugged his mother that night.
In her arms, he found comfort in the touch of sight.
Silence followed uneven breathing as a lump formed in his
throat.
He eventually let his tears fall and pictured himself as a
human boat.
‘What’s wrong? You can tell me anything’, she softly
whispered in his ear.
Her child lifted his head from her shoulder, looked his mother
in the eye and said ‘I feel tired and overly sincere’.
‘Of what?’, his mother replied, caressing his hair.
‘Of information’, he answered with a headache too strong to
bear.
They stood in embrace until he could look into abyss and reminisce
about the Reason.
His mother kissed his forehead, temporarily dismissing his insomnia
season.
Back to bed, to the uncertainty of adolescent smear.
The data of routine was making him feel humanity in years.
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