The mesmerizing coffee stained evenings, marking favorite passages in a beloved book, familiar aromas that comfort and caress the heart, the breathtaking and heart wrenching scene of dawn, the recurring sounds of laughter at the dining table. All - a recipe for the perfect trip to nostalgia.
The coffee beans, they laugh at you, they think you are silly. The book, the guitar, the piano, you don't want to touch them because you are scared that the last tune you composed might fade away, the beauty might subside. You don't want to wipe the dust off your precious instruments just because you fear that you might not find the time to make music again. Or for that matter, create something. So you avoid cleaning them.
You sense that the coffee beans are mocking you, so you kill them and drink. There is nobody to converse with. You are tired from the cleaning. Dusting away the memories aside, you get up, but there is a pain. A pain in your body, a pain in your soul. You are dried up, and crave company, but there is no one to soothe your pain with the healing balm or even soft, kind words. Nobody to say, 'I understand.'
You look down from the window of your flat and see crowds of people. But although you are above them, you wish you had somebody with you. You hear the whistling of a train and the jostling in of the bus. Listless, tired, rejected, you climb the bed, hoping to find the book, and read it. Share it with... but, all of a sudden it strikes you, you are all alone. And, you cry, for you are lonely in a city with a crowd of people.
The coffee beans, they laugh at you, they think you are silly. The book, the guitar, the piano, you don't want to touch them because you are scared that the last tune you composed might fade away, the beauty might subside. You don't want to wipe the dust off your precious instruments just because you fear that you might not find the time to make music again. Or for that matter, create something. So you avoid cleaning them.
You sense that the coffee beans are mocking you, so you kill them and drink. There is nobody to converse with. You are tired from the cleaning. Dusting away the memories aside, you get up, but there is a pain. A pain in your body, a pain in your soul. You are dried up, and crave company, but there is no one to soothe your pain with the healing balm or even soft, kind words. Nobody to say, 'I understand.'
You look down from the window of your flat and see crowds of people. But although you are above them, you wish you had somebody with you. You hear the whistling of a train and the jostling in of the bus. Listless, tired, rejected, you climb the bed, hoping to find the book, and read it. Share it with... but, all of a sudden it strikes you, you are all alone. And, you cry, for you are lonely in a city with a crowd of people.
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