you ought to be happy when it rains. where it rains. together with the feelings and unimportant ways of life; we fly, or run, away - - to see the singing smile, and to share. ‘happiness is only real when shared’, they say
randomness; of all the things she owned, she misses it the most. disordered puzzle. but it was what she was. or is. these thoughts never develop, never evolve. only float somewhere, because life is too short to be understood. she does still dream about running away. away away. where there’s tea(,there’s hope). but what about coffee? people are more or less a mixture of nonsenses. what she can’t understand is why everyone’s so different? because at the end of the day she founds everything just the same. the same as she left them. or it might only be a memory. a treat. for someone to dream about. that thin line between imagination and reality. growing up - is being random, that’s for sure. but what happens when you’re already there? - you smile., because you have absolutely no idea what is going on
can we forget that time exists at least for few seconds? can we forget those words exist? - minutes, seconds; can we just run away? and recklessly cry. and lie. or maybe just mind our own businesses. alone. utterly alone. imagine we have chocolaty brown eyes, not less than two infinities of freckles, and lots and lots of time. running and running and running around, not away. being the same kids we used to be. or at least just kids. you don’t have to chose just yet; there is some time left. even though it’s never fair..
yet, i always want to see the seasons change - -
it’s so quiet, and so real. like a vivid childhood memory from a long lost dream. i can feel it but i can never understand what it is. almost as if i’ve been away for too long. away. for too long. nothing is endless. or anything is. nobody dares messing with that, except relativity. and yet, i don’t believe in black holes. time feeds itself rather fast. we’re not the same kids we used to be. but we still believe in stars, don’t we? and evenings, and nights. only, we drink coffee now. i can’t do advanced math like i used to but i can still see the beauty of it all. when i try to dream. we are so free,
they all sat down round an old brown coffee table and by giving odd looks to each other decided it was time to write something down. the coffee drinkers. the room was rather warm and filled with nutty coffee smell. mexican, i believe, was their favourite, not old brown java. the book readers. everybody in the room owned at least one book; and everybody knew each other’s favourites. life smelled chocolaty at that very moment. only because the wind had changed that day. too bad there weren’t enough trees in the town to enjoy those changes truly. nevertheless, everybody agreed on the colours. after all, autumn is the best season of the year.
is this where we really want to go? asked someone quietly,
is this the time to ask these questions? whispered the girl,
the laughter followed the conversation which wasn’t actually a conversation because no one cared to answer.
anything. nothing. something.
we should paint something, suggested the girl, something lovely, something green. and then we’ll go. away
dancing the life. it’s all she ever does. and when you dance this much in your heart, there’s never enough space for sadness. though the tears are always welcome - - here. and there. whenever and whatever. because just living is never enough. just dancing is never enough. living the dance and dancing the life. we all ought to mix up those words, or worlds. and music. because the sound of nonsenses is what keeps the beat. for dancing. and living. the heart. the heart is beating - - how can you not want to dance? gracefully, lovely, secretly, differently; slow or fast - so long as it’s honest. you start dancing your life and then nothing else matters. it’s a feeling of perfection. it’s more than love, or baking. it’s a secret recipe of happiness
