Path

Road trippin with my two favorite allies
Fully loaded we got snacks and supplies
It's time to leave this town
It's time to steal away
Let's go get lost

Yeah, there's a weird thing about roads. That melancholia arrives as I'd never got it before. Lites coming from the front. From where I'm going. where am I going to? Where am I coming from? And it's funny... those lites are always in the same place. The are always lighting the same place. Where am I going to? where?
Alone or not, the steamed up windows were a notebook. Just where I draw my thought. I wrote gritar, I remember. I did it twice, indeed. I draw a few other words. Can't remember well. I draw with the tip of my finger. And then those words cried down the window. Where did they go? Where did everything go? Then I realised that my entire mind-dict had became blank sheets. Blank, just like my eyes. And my stained soul thought as well, where has it gone? to the end? Did even left the beggining?

The best part of leaving, when you leave, is that in fact you are leaving. I colour blinded myself to the point of getting... getting blind at all. senseless. liteless.

I love the idea of being against of favouritisms. I hate them. I do not like more black than white. I can't be just one way. I can't stand being hard whether I haven't been smooth. I need grey. I need clouds. I do not need them, anyway. Thankfully, I've learned I do not need anything. I'll be just who I am. I've always been the same one. Counting the light posts in the highway. Wondering where's the moon. I hate to find myself with someone talking to me when I'm counting da posts in the highway. I hate tests. I hate yours. I hate mine. I hate to re-read what I've just wrote. I do not hate at all. I hate to do not hate. I love. I love to hear something within my ears. I love silence. There's just oxygen between love and hate.

I'd love to write this story over and over again. Like a book. Like a screenplay. Like a script. I'm not just a part of the plot. Thakfully, I'm not.

And I'm not part of anywhere. I do not belong to anywhere else. I'm part of my own flesh... wait... am I? And there's the phone ringing again and I won't pick up. I do not like to pick up the phone. That's we've got words. That's we've got our own linguistical mode to bleed our senses in an aeonic flux of silence. We do not need to write. We do not need to hear. We do not need to read; We can stare. Stare at a point. A tiny one. A cold one. That's why there're no warm colours in my world. There's no right. There's no wrong. There's no you. There's no anything besides me (As selfish as it sounds).

I'm real

We're always wallowed in something. Something between. Something right. Something wrong. There's no zero. There's no water. What is there then? what was there, then? What is there if we've found somewhere else? And if not? Where we are?

I'm Jack's wasted life

I'm not trying to seem a quick thinker nor a smart one. I'm not trying to find any answer. I stopped doin it long ago, and I'm grateful. This life would be unbearable. Unbearable like you being winter in summer. And I do not like more winter than summer. I prefer autumn. I prefer silence. And over all, I prefer this life over all my previous lives. I prefer me as I've created me over every me known before. I prefer you, over everything wrong in this world.

And there is always a new tube of ink waiting to br written. There always will be thousands of words to be spelled... as long as we spell them wrong sometime.

The heretic seal beyond divine
A prayer to a god who's deaf and bling
The last riles for souls on fire
Three little words and a question why?

I won't stop dreaming (about you) ♥