Some nights I just read poetry and listen to the same old songs I’ve been listening to for years. Poetry, music and solitude. Almost as good a combination as of whiskey and words.
Artists. I wonder,
Aren’t they the best people to fall in love with? And aren’t we ALL artists of sorts?
The way we set our respective boats onto the raging tides of this ever changing ocean called life, the way we so languidly get through every storm, adjusting the sails in accordance to the wind, some find company on their way to the shore, the ones worth sharing their dingy boat with, some sail alone until one finally reaches the shore and some give up too soon.
Better an adventurous voyage that makes you want to scream and rip apart all of your flesh only to help you discover the galaxies that lie underneath it, than absolute lifelessness, nothingness.
Artists. They’re the best people to fall in love with and aren’t we all artists of sorts?
The way we adorn our days with hopes and dreams wreathed into a beautiful garland, painting our skies with the colours of various emotions, another page written with another day lived.
The way you carry the glimpse of her smile as a memory embossed in your mind and not a photograph that lies smothered beneath stacks of albums and the sound of her laughter not as an audio clip but an echo that never seems to receed from your otherwise empty life.
Some nights, I want to disappear but words help me stay. Sometimes theirs, sometimes mine.