What’s Written

God. I don’t wanna be deep right now, but I do just wanna write. It may turn it may not.

Picture this, okay?

Me, as the image of whatever the hell you think I look like, walking down the neighborhood in England, night time, blasting 30 seconds by Vynl Theatre in my twisted up-jank headphones.

I’m living, I’m pacing, I’m thriving. That is,

Until my mind reaches pass the drug-like melodies that fill my head with chemicals that apparently make me “feel something”.

So it begins. My musical trip. I see the world different through every song that comes on.

It’s a different 3 minute long lense that I see through. What’s it like when the song is on repeat you may ask?

Well, that song is just the lense I want the world to look like and get stuck at the most.

I crave to feel that memory until it becomes my present or I desire to embrace my overthinking and stare deep into a puddle and admire the sky, the clouds, through the ground. The sky looks best that way, ya know? It looks so carefree. It looks...within reach, my friend. You wouldn’t understand.

I’ve had many rainy days. Many days. Many nights. Who needs a telescope when I’ve seen the moon through those puddles? Ha, it’s silly to me, to be honest.

As I walk through the neighborhood, I don’t feel fear. Is it cause it’s actually safe? Everyone’s tucked in their heated beds and floors, snuggled on the couch with their pet? Is it because I don’t care and probably do have a stalker following me, but I just frankly don’t give a shit? Hahahaha. Yes my friends. It’s the latter! I just don’t give a shit. Stalker come at me bro!

Picture this,

Me, as the image of whatever the hell you think I look like, arriving at the driveway of their temporary place of stay, moving slower and slower, because they don’t want their trip to be over. They don’t want their song to end. To stop the cycle. They crave more imagination. This person. This wreck. They want an eternal sidewalk to walk on. When they reach their home, no matter if it’s theirs or not, when they reach the place they lay their heads, they refuse to leave the reflection of the puddle. They drag their feet.

The front door, now in front of me.

I couldn’t drag it out anymore. I press the pause button on the wire of my twisted up headphones. Sad and distant because of how detached this song on repeat has made me.

I’m greeted by their dog as I crash land myself to the mundane reality.

Thanks for listening.

See ya.