I may have written bout this before. About picking up crumbles of past stories, tracing the dried blood from past wounds that never turned to dust, sniffing drawn images of past emotion that never completely turn to rock. But it is more like picking up a number from shuffled bowl, unparticular. Every piece picked had become nothing but fading colors, sliding off my fingers i cant never contain as a story to tell. But i suppose it is better that way.
When i was sitting in the bus for a long ride. Music was loud in my ears; playing Muse, Radiohead and Tool, and it rained outside. Water pearls were racing on the window. Time seemed relative, as my mind was breaking loose; wild and happy. Like little kid playing with mud, she was dancing within ideas, throwing silly questions and remarks bout random stuff. i didnt bother with pen and paper, enjoying her free beauty; didnt want to put her in a box and trap her in definition.
When i was on waiting mode, sitting inside a crowded room. Music was loud in my ears; playing Muse, Radiohead and Pearl Jam. Everyone there was just like me, waiting for the wall of water to eventually break all down, so we can move on, dry. Time seemed relative, as i let my mind sitting next to me, and together drawn in quietness, simply enjoying the sight of nature doing its thing.
When i was sitting next to the glass wall, expecting some people to show up. Knowing that the rain must have slowed them down to be on time. Music was loud in my ears; playing Muse, Radiohead and Linkin Park. Time seemed relative, that i forgot where i am what i am doing, hypnotized by the moving image of people rushing in and out between parking lot and the restaurant. Like watching repeating TV show thru huge screen.
those moments (of the rain, alternative rock music and I)
when i wished no one would poke me
reminded time to reclaim its potent