(no subject)
We are together again, beside a green pool of motivation.
I think of being thirteen, wild and slant-eyed, sitting in my year 8 history lesson and trying to solve the mystery of some bogman sacrificed centuries ago; sacrificed and hung to save the world, to preserve society and please the Gods - and then, he's forgotten a hundred years later; just another soul to redeem selfish humanity.
I think of love and how momentary it is, the condescending tone of passion. It tugs at my hair, and screams at me - shouts at me, tells me to toughen up and get myself a new hobby. Immidiately after, it touches my face and strokes my chin and apologises for being so agrressive, so demanding. But I look at it, sad smile and curious eyes sewn into my face, and ask why it's words and expectations are always so erratic.
Passion looks back at me, while the world stands still and the cars fade into a long ribbon of strange and luminous colours, spilling headlights all over the wet road and my face and his face - but not the face of passion. Passion remains unharmed and in the dark - secret, hidden away. I don't understand the silence - 'why do you never give me a straight answer' and passion looks at me once more, this time with it's eyes burning into my forehead - and says 'because you're always asking in the wrong place' and with that, it retreats into the shadow of the motorway. It remains lingering, but it never shows it's face.