(no subject)
other journeys are taken. the shorter ones have the sound of machination trundling across a suburbia, letting only autumn announce those dreadful secrets creeping up when the cold sets in. before you know it, they gave you one hour, one extra hour of misery. one extra of sun light to know which leaves will fall, which won't. to know how to speak of the weather to strangers, to realise at least these terms in which we endure our pasts and futures, are not solitary moments. other journeys are taken. in the longer nights, doors open to warmer continents. still you always wish there's something to hold on to before even longing and dread are acclimatised.
when it is all over, you realised that one hour given so freely has to be taken back. nothing is free. not even time. still we continue making our journeys. what we have now is this: the heat, the sweat that runs across our foreheads, the way gelati melts stickily all over your hand, the way the sun has on the ways we covet and desire. if nothing else remains, there will always be that lost hour, the pay back that exhorts a price from our reverie. still, for most, it is a small price.
when it is all over, you realised that one hour given so freely has to be taken back. nothing is free. not even time. still we continue making our journeys. what we have now is this: the heat, the sweat that runs across our foreheads, the way gelati melts stickily all over your hand, the way the sun has on the ways we covet and desire. if nothing else remains, there will always be that lost hour, the pay back that exhorts a price from our reverie. still, for most, it is a small price.