It is easy to dream of another world.
One far beneath this one, so far that the waters ran clear, where I would not be able hear music, nor see an empty face ever again. I don't get much time to day dream but I do it every chance I get.
The time between you wake up from bed and are awake to know it's another morning already, those few moments....I close the doors of my mind as not to allow any part of the real world to follow in.
And then the day begins.
Generally we cannot know for sure whether it is a good thing or not to speak of that banished thing, something that we do alone or something that we do habitually, unknowingly.
What actually takes place is walking together on great boulevards telling each other our locust memories, walk like dry cobs stirring the nostalgia, speaking that urban-rural language, of baked breads and treating each other for minor ailments, of the best moments with friends and more.
....what is left behind, what goes unsaid, what is appropriate is to just consider and not put to words, is the real world, those are the real feelings with a firmness capable of more and more.
We exist each other and the whole becomes one single thing.
We love so many things. And so many people. That at the end, we know that is what is killing us, hurts us on a level where talking about an erroneous calendar of the love made day and night and evenings and some mornings, or rusted iron poles of the swing or talking about being eaten up by mosquitoes in an area of total transparency, is way more simple.
Because now we know, now we've realized, now we've learnt by someone else's bitter example, now our life has set one more example telling us, that everything we love kills us.
Without nothing. Paradoxically.
One far beneath this one, so far that the waters ran clear, where I would not be able hear music, nor see an empty face ever again. I don't get much time to day dream but I do it every chance I get.
The time between you wake up from bed and are awake to know it's another morning already, those few moments....I close the doors of my mind as not to allow any part of the real world to follow in.
And then the day begins.
What actually takes place is walking together on great boulevards telling each other our locust memories, walk like dry cobs stirring the nostalgia, speaking that urban-rural language, of baked breads and treating each other for minor ailments, of the best moments with friends and more.
....what is left behind, what goes unsaid, what is appropriate is to just consider and not put to words, is the real world, those are the real feelings with a firmness capable of more and more.
We exist each other and the whole becomes one single thing.
We love so many things. And so many people. That at the end, we know that is what is killing us, hurts us on a level where talking about an erroneous calendar of the love made day and night and evenings and some mornings, or rusted iron poles of the swing or talking about being eaten up by mosquitoes in an area of total transparency, is way more simple.
Because now we know, now we've realized, now we've learnt by someone else's bitter example, now our life has set one more example telling us, that everything we love kills us.
Without nothing. Paradoxically.
