There are places that connect our soul with the world; a random swing in an old garden or maybe a dusty window. You sit there for hours all by yourself and it adds up to the best time you've ever had. The moon looks gorgeous and the breeze feels like homecoming. That place is now the punctuations to your sentences and without it, everything seems a little confusing.
One day while you're walking towards that creeky swing, you notice someone else already there. So you stop and investigate who it is from afar. Oh, It's someone with crossed hands and his eyes clinging to the moon, frozen face just like the motion of the swing. The air around feels cold even in March. Shit, He noticed you while you're staring at him. So he gets up with a smile and he's gone.
Home doesn't feel like home anymore. It is as if that wood now holds someone else's emotions. It is no more a good listener to the stories of a 15 year old, it's about a random stranger and his life now. What was he thinking about? Achievements or regrets? Or was his mind at pitch silence?
I sit there, struggling to understand his story now. Is there someone else trying to figure out mine?
One day while you're walking towards that creeky swing, you notice someone else already there. So you stop and investigate who it is from afar. Oh, It's someone with crossed hands and his eyes clinging to the moon, frozen face just like the motion of the swing. The air around feels cold even in March. Shit, He noticed you while you're staring at him. So he gets up with a smile and he's gone.
Home doesn't feel like home anymore. It is as if that wood now holds someone else's emotions. It is no more a good listener to the stories of a 15 year old, it's about a random stranger and his life now. What was he thinking about? Achievements or regrets? Or was his mind at pitch silence?
I sit there, struggling to understand his story now. Is there someone else trying to figure out mine?
