Something about...
There's something about life, about living, about breathing; something I can't quite put my finger on, because in all reality, it's not exactly there. It lingers, it wafts, it travels through time and space and latches onto the soul and keeps the heart beating, but it never does anything worth while unless you make something of it. It's like a testament to you being who you are, and at the same time, the outbringing of your flaws.
It's like the pale moonlight that glows, even through the rain clouds. It's like the sun hidden by the rain clouds, but still burning the retina. It's like the rain clouds, showering us with a drizzle or with a downpour. It's like the sky, whisking by above us as we turn on our axis, unaware of our doings.
And yet I can't bring myself to breathe, or feel, or nod off into non-existence, because I know it won't work - that I won't be able to live, because I'm bonded to my past, to my present, and to my future, and I fear that freedom is a word lost in the distance; a distance I will never reach. So I can feel my heart beating, but not my soul breathing, and I can't make out the rhythm and the pattern of life because I'm too scared to wonder at what that pattern and rhythm is. It's like falling asleep in an empty toy box and worrying your parents into thinking you're lost until they find you.
Life is all about the flavored ice pops, or the rice and beans with olives, or the way your hair whips your face when the window's are open when you drive. It's about ripping at the bondages and tearing at the empty soul and reminding your pulse that it doesn't just have to course through your body, it can flow, it can divide, it can conquer the heart beat and freshen the sallow skin above. Life is all about the way you smile when someone says something nice, or the way you fall into the arms of a loved one, or the way he smells when you're laying beside him, or the way she always tells you that you'll be best friends until the world comes to an end. Life is about knowing where your home is, and knowing where your family is. Life is about wanting to be who you are in a world where no one truly cares who you are, because regardless of the stressed uniqueness of society, you'll have to comform or give in and break down at one point, otherwise the walls of economy and politics and living will crash and burn.
Life isn't worth living without love; except love is just a word, not an emotion. Love is just four-letters that are so immune to feelings we've lost the mentality of caring, of knowing, of wanting to be the sole supporter, the go-to-gal, the lover of everything - of the flaws, of the ups and downs, of the small quirks. Life isn't worth living without living, without wanting, without not knowing, without breathing.
And sometimes we forget to breathe, and at the moment, I'm choking on my soul.
It's like the pale moonlight that glows, even through the rain clouds. It's like the sun hidden by the rain clouds, but still burning the retina. It's like the rain clouds, showering us with a drizzle or with a downpour. It's like the sky, whisking by above us as we turn on our axis, unaware of our doings.
And yet I can't bring myself to breathe, or feel, or nod off into non-existence, because I know it won't work - that I won't be able to live, because I'm bonded to my past, to my present, and to my future, and I fear that freedom is a word lost in the distance; a distance I will never reach. So I can feel my heart beating, but not my soul breathing, and I can't make out the rhythm and the pattern of life because I'm too scared to wonder at what that pattern and rhythm is. It's like falling asleep in an empty toy box and worrying your parents into thinking you're lost until they find you.
Life is all about the flavored ice pops, or the rice and beans with olives, or the way your hair whips your face when the window's are open when you drive. It's about ripping at the bondages and tearing at the empty soul and reminding your pulse that it doesn't just have to course through your body, it can flow, it can divide, it can conquer the heart beat and freshen the sallow skin above. Life is all about the way you smile when someone says something nice, or the way you fall into the arms of a loved one, or the way he smells when you're laying beside him, or the way she always tells you that you'll be best friends until the world comes to an end. Life is about knowing where your home is, and knowing where your family is. Life is about wanting to be who you are in a world where no one truly cares who you are, because regardless of the stressed uniqueness of society, you'll have to comform or give in and break down at one point, otherwise the walls of economy and politics and living will crash and burn.
Life isn't worth living without love; except love is just a word, not an emotion. Love is just four-letters that are so immune to feelings we've lost the mentality of caring, of knowing, of wanting to be the sole supporter, the go-to-gal, the lover of everything - of the flaws, of the ups and downs, of the small quirks. Life isn't worth living without living, without wanting, without not knowing, without breathing.
And sometimes we forget to breathe, and at the moment, I'm choking on my soul.