it's 1 a.m, and me feeling myself penetrated into my world of thoughts.
re-reading an old book is like you reunite with your old good friend.
content, but dramatically nostalgic.
picking it up unintentionally,
opening the first page is like you two giving a handshake,
you feel the texture - you feel the softness of skin.
pages are flooded with scribblings,
like the way you two minds are filled with memories and it's time to reminisce.
reading an old book,
taking you to the sense of remembering your first opening pages.
talking with your old friend,
taking you to the moment of re-wondering how fast time flies,
then out of nowhere, you both say out loud:
'time passed so quickly, mate?'.
it is you, or me, or the fact that life push us to limits,
bringing us to the state of not-ready-to-have gatherings.
it is you, or me, thinking 'bout us, not any more, feeling the same way,
bringing us to the world of silence,
or it's just the parallel lines that can never intersect.
we get older,
with different directions to guide ourselves,
with different people to 'feel the same way',
with different goals to pursue that we call 'the destiny of our life'.
the fact that we cannot consider the other is wrong or not,
but just, deep down be in hopes of better life for 'them'...
dear you,
the old but good.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
my notes:
it's 1 a.m and i've been immersing myself in pages of books, feeling like there is part of me trying to penetrate into the thousands of fairy tales that are not gonna happen in the reality. it's you or just me, who start to feel how dramatic thing is when the sky is getting dark?
