"I would like you to love me, to love me, to love me..."
Do you know this feeling; this feeling of just going out for a run past midnight along a dark alley, watching the stars all along, away from the city lights and sound, with soft music blessing your night? Do you feel acquainted with this feeling of utter freedom; like you really are free from all that bound you: all the commitment, the fears, the misery, the loneliness, the walls and the distance? It seems so nice you don't feel like going back and want to endlessly live with this freedom, with such ease.
"Our stories resembles that of nature's, the only difference being their silence against our words and resonance. So display your feelings, your thoughts, what lies deep within through stories of the stars and the moon, how the sun loved and how broken the clouds were, how the sea was harming and how the waves were stuck in an endless loop of self-destruction, how all clears out by the end of the days and how things fall perfectly into place as the light watery breeze you get on a hot sunny day. Write about them, those we admire from afar and make them picture us. Write about us." The smile that followed was the inspiration most writers would be dying for, a taste of countless stories, of dread, of love, of heartbreak, of deception and faith; an oasis, seemed real but you could never really understand what was there, the depths of which seemed infinite.
This voice it talks to me at midnight, tells me what I should be doing and how to get my life back on track, how to somewhat makes things right. These words, nature, our world, the love, the people around, the sadness that lingers around in the corners of their eyes, the beating of our hearts, the sounds of laughter and pure bliss, how hot tears feel, how real pain is and how cruel distance can be.
The clouds let go of the sky, leaving behind a clear blue mirror, something these underlings dreaded for. The soothing blue, undisturbed, remained for long an object of appreciation, of solace,of peace and serenity, a refuge for those who sought escapes routes from their flat addictions. The blue dulled out way too quick, the amazement died down and longing found its way in, filling in the hollow caves of every pair of eyes that sought the heights, a longing for the whites, grays and blacks to surface back, rejuvenating the sky, bringing more contrasts to the blue to rid it from its monotonous boredom, a longing for the clouds to melt back into the sky, for their union was divine, a delight for the eyes. Though sometimes there was way too much white covering up the blue and not letting it blossom, it soon realized that without that bit too much it would be meaningless and die, that remorse was in being separated and they had to stick together, it was what they were meant for, to complement the other.
What would we be without you in it? Before giving up on the other, take some time, think over things again and replay the moments in your eyes' mind. Do you really want to give up on that person? How will life be without them? If you can't find these answers, stay back for a little longer, try a little bit harder, some chances are worth the risks and the wait. We are all sailing paper boats in an ever-changing stream, looking out for our shores, our paths back to where we belong, somewhere where we need not fear the tides nor the submerging cracks. A single life is boring, a glimpse at my moon could prove this theory true.
"Our stories resembles that of nature's, the only difference being their silence against our words and resonance. So display your feelings, your thoughts, what lies deep within through stories of the stars and the moon, how the sun loved and how broken the clouds were, how the sea was harming and how the waves were stuck in an endless loop of self-destruction, how all clears out by the end of the days and how things fall perfectly into place as the light watery breeze you get on a hot sunny day. Write about them, those we admire from afar and make them picture us. Write about us." The smile that followed was the inspiration most writers would be dying for, a taste of countless stories, of dread, of love, of heartbreak, of deception and faith; an oasis, seemed real but you could never really understand what was there, the depths of which seemed infinite.
This voice it talks to me at midnight, tells me what I should be doing and how to get my life back on track, how to somewhat makes things right. These words, nature, our world, the love, the people around, the sadness that lingers around in the corners of their eyes, the beating of our hearts, the sounds of laughter and pure bliss, how hot tears feel, how real pain is and how cruel distance can be.
The clouds let go of the sky, leaving behind a clear blue mirror, something these underlings dreaded for. The soothing blue, undisturbed, remained for long an object of appreciation, of solace,of peace and serenity, a refuge for those who sought escapes routes from their flat addictions. The blue dulled out way too quick, the amazement died down and longing found its way in, filling in the hollow caves of every pair of eyes that sought the heights, a longing for the whites, grays and blacks to surface back, rejuvenating the sky, bringing more contrasts to the blue to rid it from its monotonous boredom, a longing for the clouds to melt back into the sky, for their union was divine, a delight for the eyes. Though sometimes there was way too much white covering up the blue and not letting it blossom, it soon realized that without that bit too much it would be meaningless and die, that remorse was in being separated and they had to stick together, it was what they were meant for, to complement the other.
What would we be without you in it? Before giving up on the other, take some time, think over things again and replay the moments in your eyes' mind. Do you really want to give up on that person? How will life be without them? If you can't find these answers, stay back for a little longer, try a little bit harder, some chances are worth the risks and the wait. We are all sailing paper boats in an ever-changing stream, looking out for our shores, our paths back to where we belong, somewhere where we need not fear the tides nor the submerging cracks. A single life is boring, a glimpse at my moon could prove this theory true.
