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Poem

You live like this, sheltered in a delicate world crafted from dreams and illusions,
Believing you are truly living, while your steps are guided by routine,
But then you open a book... or embark on an unexpected journey,
And discover that you are not living, but hibernating, asleep in an apparent silence.
The symptoms of hibernation are easy to spot: first, the restlessness that haunts you,
The second symptom (when hibernation becomes dangerous and can degenerate into death):
The absence of pleasure, of the joy that once filled the cups of your soul,
That is all.
It seems like a harmless disease, a virus of monotony, boredom, slow death,
Millions live like this (or perhaps die like this) without knowing,
They work in offices, drive cars, have picnics with their families,
Raise children and wait for times to change.
And then, a shock treatment occurs, a person, a book, a song,
And it awakens them, saves them from the death that enveloped them like a veil,
But some never awaken, remaining asleep in their silent slumber,
In a world where only shadows speak of the life that could have been.

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