Minor problems
Shadows of memories, abstractions of reality, these things flow through my head in similarly unfamiliar places. Distinct patterns emerge from indistinct people. Perception intertwines with imaginary recollections. Random conversations repeatedly remembered. A duality emerges, time changes nothing, place matters not. Action and reaction interwoven into the tapestry of history. Continuously converging over itself. One almost indistinct from the other, all but a few frayed threads defining one from another, the colors blend, change, fade or disappear. Yet each revolves into near replicas of the rest. Is there no innovation, is there no original thought? Don’t answer and let me sleep a little longer, perchance to dream of a time I do not foresee. (or is this also a recreation of a bygone wish, am I and this a copy?) I have heard this story, seen this play, I know it's conclusion. And it never ends well!
I don't think of this as EMO, cause it doesn't bring me down, merely solidifies my walk on role which I still cherish. If you still don't believe me, read it again in my regular angry tone. Anyways, I would gladly take my bow and leave the stage if and when the time comes. Even if I end up being a janitor or stage hand and don't have to leave the stage or bow. I will take the curtain call, just never leave the stage.
I don't think of this as EMO, cause it doesn't bring me down, merely solidifies my walk on role which I still cherish. If you still don't believe me, read it again in my regular angry tone. Anyways, I would gladly take my bow and leave the stage if and when the time comes. Even if I end up being a janitor or stage hand and don't have to leave the stage or bow. I will take the curtain call, just never leave the stage.