The overload of information, the vast subject matter, the endless genres of art and music, and the countless perspectives of people make the world feel so full of entropies. I am unable to recognize which song I would listen to when I pass by the streets of old schools. I feel lost in how I will remember the people who were once my friends, those who texted me at different times, only to detach again and again. How strange it is that we can mean nothing to some, yet be everything to someone else, even if only for a single day. How will I capture all this if I ever write a novel? How will I write the overwhelming emotions when the bond was not something I faked, but something I truly believed in, even if it slipped away?
If I ever write, I will not know whether to call it love or illusion, presence or absence, truth or a story I told myself. Maybe what I remember isn’t the truth, and what I forget isn’t false. If I ever write this, I don’t know if I will end it as hope or grief, as connection or loss.Maybe the bond was true in its time and illusion in its afterlife-
The universe of someone is shattered every time. The phrase 'act of god' is just a biblical postulate now. The core value of everything is forwarded to other dead shores. Every known face dissolves in the salt of time. The horizon of love bleeds into reddish dusk. The trade wind is blowing its own way forgetting its direction. All that impulsive and stories of unending torque collapse into a single breath. Time erase all in the end, no divine escapism, no stationary ways and gradual dissolution.
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Everyone has their own limited horizon to see things, "that pre-understanding patterns" to interpret things. Though wisdom, one can recognise their starting point of understanding yet moves forward greater depth and rich insights.
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The thought is the same, but the way of thinking changes with time. The seconds in a minute are the same, but the way of spending them changes with time. The love inside me is the same, but the way of asking, waiting, and holding on to it has completely changed with time.
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I don’t hate love, I just don’t like how people treat it. How can flirty lines be called love?
How can cuddling alone define love? Isn’t love about knowing the harsh truth and still not letting go? Isn’t love about holding someone’s hand when the world says to leave? Isn’t love about not receiving it openly, yet still giving it with all your heart?
Love is not in the show, it’s in the silent words that stays.-
The heart is filled with white noise, like the static of an old television. The moist eyes are trembling and hold a forgiveness that feels more like an illusion than truth. Love comes to you only when it needs your love, never when you need it most. You long, you wait, you ache, listening to the restless noise of your heart’s own belongings. It is painful, like yearning for a prehistoric love you once lost. And yet, in this ache lies the truth: love is not always a presence, it is often a haunting.
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The soul was waiting for another soul in vacuum, playing cosmic microwave songs.
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The absolute nothing between you and me hurts me more than between galaxies.
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Let’s meet where every sunset feels like a million emotions but there is only one orange round. Let’s sit where the rain begins to fall, where people call it just greyish clouds. Let’s disappear into the ocean blue, where wind and storm once coloured the scent of our first meeting. Let’s find ourselves again, like children afraid of being found. Let’s dream a dream together, where thousands die just for this one to be born. Let’s walk the road of hope, the one we were always meant to follow. Let’s see through eyes where every sun sets, and the Earth forgets to rotate, just to hold that moment, to let us watch the sunset and the horizon in romanticism a little longer.
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Let’s meet where every sunset feels like a million emotions but there is only one orange round. Let’s sit where the rain begins to fall, where people call it just greyish clouds. Let’s disappear into the ocean blue, where wind and storm once coloured the scent of our first meeting. Let’s find ourselves again, like children afraid of being found. Let’s dream a dream together, where thousands die just for this one to be born. Let’s walk the road of hope, the one we were always meant to follow. Let’s see through eyes where every sun sets, and the Earth forgets to rotate, just to hold that moment, to let us watch the sunset and the horizon in romanticism a little longer.
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