So I thought I'd win the war...
Driving home from class at ten at night lends itself to a suspended sort of awareness intertwining with the slow sad melodies of the music on the radio. It's like watching a movie or viewing everything from behind the lense of a camera, the sinuous curves of the road, the strange surrealism of the streetlights. The music fits perfectly into every frame as though narrated by the wordless emotions and thoughts echoing softly through my mind.
"If you don't cry, it isn't love...if you don't cry, then you just don't feel it deep enough," and I wonder what that says about me, and then I realize that I know and didn't want to know, and wonder why I ever admit these things to myself. And I wish that I could get back that feeling I woke up with even when I know it wouldn't really be like that and it was just a dream, its enchantment based entirely on fleeting fancy.
I wonder absently if the warm summer air only smells like sex in my head, if I can feel the autumn in my blood and why I get so fucking poetic when I'm driving home at night, or if it's just the Captain Morgan's in my coke. Finally I drive out of the city, buildings give way to trees and the ambiance changes as I enter act two, the chimerical ambiance shifting mistlike from the glitzy afterdark of the suburbs to the sweet, sanguine alure of the countryside.
I blink tears at coffee in the dark by the swamp and corn husk trails and hit fifty feeling like it's twenty, feeling like I can fly from the top of the hill and come down somewhere soft with star dust in my hair and I wonder why images like this always have a sad aftertaste I can never seem to get out of my mouth and why I love them anyway.
"If you don't cry, it isn't love...if you don't cry, then you just don't feel it deep enough," and I wonder what that says about me, and then I realize that I know and didn't want to know, and wonder why I ever admit these things to myself. And I wish that I could get back that feeling I woke up with even when I know it wouldn't really be like that and it was just a dream, its enchantment based entirely on fleeting fancy.
I wonder absently if the warm summer air only smells like sex in my head, if I can feel the autumn in my blood and why I get so fucking poetic when I'm driving home at night, or if it's just the Captain Morgan's in my coke. Finally I drive out of the city, buildings give way to trees and the ambiance changes as I enter act two, the chimerical ambiance shifting mistlike from the glitzy afterdark of the suburbs to the sweet, sanguine alure of the countryside.
I blink tears at coffee in the dark by the swamp and corn husk trails and hit fifty feeling like it's twenty, feeling like I can fly from the top of the hill and come down somewhere soft with star dust in my hair and I wonder why images like this always have a sad aftertaste I can never seem to get out of my mouth and why I love them anyway.