My mind went blank...
Every moment has a story howsoever small it may be, it could never be insignificant. From the very first peck to the last goodbye, from expectation to refusal, from flying hopes to damning desperation, every moment is captured in the timeline, recorded deep into the universe, unanswered. Moments like these aren't shared as tell-tales but experienced woefully.
A face so full of laughter during the day surprisingly finds it's way into over-analysed made-up situations at night, trying to prove for something which hasn't happened already.
Like a picture on the wall, holding a thousand memories, depicts an ideal atmosphere to which one cannot relate anymore. Lost in the hazy future, brooding over the past, the light which tries to pierce the burden of both slowly dies away.
Say, a fine evening, walking down the wet country road with food in your hand knowing empty tummies are waiting for you. While you're exhausting every grain of your timeline, in these walks you try to recapture your journey, how you've landed to where you presently are, thankful of the stars to align yours in sense. How you go about exerting yourself to make for the ones you love, everything that you do, because you know time isn't going to come back, provide as much as you can, till you can.
While you fly away to those nostalgic moments where you lived your life to the fullest without boundations, like a wild horse let loose to find it's way, tearing through the still, galloping swiftly into the golden night..
But the thing is, freedom doesn't last long. Today or tomorrow one has to find their way back to the present, when you swam in the shimmering sea of past where old memories made you sentimental, all those recordings of the universe were there just to guide you to a better future. But when one starts to hide behind those gone days, one exposes themselves to torture, becomes demotivated to drive the present, ironically being wholly conscious that letting go of the control isn't the answer.
A memory is like a privilege, you hold it dear when times are hard, but when that hold becomes dangerously strong, that caressing touch becomes cancerous, clinged to your heart, that touch annihilates your individuality, and with that the fabric that connects you with reality starts wearing away.
Detachment is bliss, ignorance is bliss.
A face so full of laughter during the day surprisingly finds it's way into over-analysed made-up situations at night, trying to prove for something which hasn't happened already.
Like a picture on the wall, holding a thousand memories, depicts an ideal atmosphere to which one cannot relate anymore. Lost in the hazy future, brooding over the past, the light which tries to pierce the burden of both slowly dies away.
Say, a fine evening, walking down the wet country road with food in your hand knowing empty tummies are waiting for you. While you're exhausting every grain of your timeline, in these walks you try to recapture your journey, how you've landed to where you presently are, thankful of the stars to align yours in sense. How you go about exerting yourself to make for the ones you love, everything that you do, because you know time isn't going to come back, provide as much as you can, till you can.
While you fly away to those nostalgic moments where you lived your life to the fullest without boundations, like a wild horse let loose to find it's way, tearing through the still, galloping swiftly into the golden night..
But the thing is, freedom doesn't last long. Today or tomorrow one has to find their way back to the present, when you swam in the shimmering sea of past where old memories made you sentimental, all those recordings of the universe were there just to guide you to a better future. But when one starts to hide behind those gone days, one exposes themselves to torture, becomes demotivated to drive the present, ironically being wholly conscious that letting go of the control isn't the answer.
A memory is like a privilege, you hold it dear when times are hard, but when that hold becomes dangerously strong, that caressing touch becomes cancerous, clinged to your heart, that touch annihilates your individuality, and with that the fabric that connects you with reality starts wearing away.
Detachment is bliss, ignorance is bliss.
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