(no subject)
The nights are our nights.
We walk down the dark, silent streets with a fire burning in our hearts, a fire for things we have not yet seen and done, but they are brewing inside of us nonetheless and we run to the bookstore that closes last because if our flames are not quenched by the fresh oxygen of youth and art, the least we can do is to buy some time sifting through the dusty books and feed upon every word and picture. Our fires are an eclectic mix of things. We run through the park in the rain with our hoods up and our guards down, trusting only in the dim streelight at the other side to guide us while the soft, moist ground beneath sinks with the weight of our footsteps. No we care not whether we plunge or fall or lose our sanity by the end of it all. We care only for the feasting of our fires, and our hungry stomachs. We eat exotic foods but we are not exotic. We live life by deceptions, and our plebian existence is only framed by every effort to try to live as if we are not ordinary. And tedious and vain and conventional. What are we, really. We're just trying to have fun. The kind of fun that quickens the senses, the kind of fun that leaves us with a satisfied smirk on our face, and we are instigated, we are insatiate for more.
The world is so big to us and we are yearning to take a bite. At the end of the night, we exhaust ourselves to discover that it is the morning in which we fear. And we realize that our fires will never be ignited, our hunger will never be gorged.
But it's trips to the grocery store that make us realize that perhaps we are more compatible than most. With the bottles of water heavy on our tired hands, we decide we would live together next year.
We walk down the dark, silent streets with a fire burning in our hearts, a fire for things we have not yet seen and done, but they are brewing inside of us nonetheless and we run to the bookstore that closes last because if our flames are not quenched by the fresh oxygen of youth and art, the least we can do is to buy some time sifting through the dusty books and feed upon every word and picture. Our fires are an eclectic mix of things. We run through the park in the rain with our hoods up and our guards down, trusting only in the dim streelight at the other side to guide us while the soft, moist ground beneath sinks with the weight of our footsteps. No we care not whether we plunge or fall or lose our sanity by the end of it all. We care only for the feasting of our fires, and our hungry stomachs. We eat exotic foods but we are not exotic. We live life by deceptions, and our plebian existence is only framed by every effort to try to live as if we are not ordinary. And tedious and vain and conventional. What are we, really. We're just trying to have fun. The kind of fun that quickens the senses, the kind of fun that leaves us with a satisfied smirk on our face, and we are instigated, we are insatiate for more.
The world is so big to us and we are yearning to take a bite. At the end of the night, we exhaust ourselves to discover that it is the morning in which we fear. And we realize that our fires will never be ignited, our hunger will never be gorged.
But it's trips to the grocery store that make us realize that perhaps we are more compatible than most. With the bottles of water heavy on our tired hands, we decide we would live together next year.