Here's something I wrote back for one in the select group of people I've come to always enjoy and cherish coming around and sharing stories with. One of the writer's on my wall:
Lit Djarums in a parking lot near a local park, on an uneventful summer where no one has had anything to do.
What do our impulses tell us? Get the hell out of here and go somewhere where time goes by quicker, and we don't have to worry about seeing people we'd rather avoid. Why? Because at home we feel uncomfortable in our own skin, and the sun doesn't seem to shine as bright as it used to around this part of the world. Not knowing where you're going has become more fulfilling than knowing where you have to stay. There's no one I'd rather explore blissful oblivion with more than S/he. I always ask myself whether she feels the same way. But of course I never ask. Sometimes it feels better to walk under the sun with your eyes closed. To feel a sensation and not know what it is. You can envision it to what you want it to be. To feel something and interpret it with no sense other than your imagination.
Where love roams freely in a state of wonder.
What do our impulses tell us? Get the hell out of here and go somewhere where time goes by quicker, and we don't have to worry about seeing people we'd rather avoid. Why? Because at home we feel uncomfortable in our own skin, and the sun doesn't seem to shine as bright as it used to around this part of the world. Not knowing where you're going has become more fulfilling than knowing where you have to stay. There's no one I'd rather explore blissful oblivion with more than S/he. I always ask myself whether she feels the same way. But of course I never ask. Sometimes it feels better to walk under the sun with your eyes closed. To feel a sensation and not know what it is. You can envision it to what you want it to be. To feel something and interpret it with no sense other than your imagination.
Where love roams freely in a state of wonder.
