What are you thinking of? Are you aware? My rooms a mess. Cluttered with random memories. Apparently every item represents something? I'm not so sure. You see through the mists of time I forget things. Like specifics. The main idea stays the same but the details morph and tangent in different directions. It keeps me occupied sifting though the draws and cupboards of my memory to decipher whats real and whats a lie. Does it not leave you concerned? that your own brain may be lying to you? on a basic level this is true. My brain does lie to me when it comes to the details. But what about the big things? could I be wrong? could i be missing out on something important? something meaningful? Maybe I'm unaware of whats going on around me. Clouded and deceived by none other than myself.
I'm holding out my hand for apocalypse drippings. I'm reeling in eucalyptus aromas. I'm wandering through perpetual summer, and the streets are overpopulated with loose thinking burnouts, skinny and unwashed. Pseudo-zombies holding out their hands for fragments. Fatigued souls with shitty parents and downward mentors. Unhappy laughers, overdosing on summer. Shallow lovers holding out their hands in the darkness of sunshine, asking me for change. Me. A drifter from the north; a vagabond blowing through the overcrowded streets; a child of God, abundant in winter, overflowing with snow and cold, holding out my hands for a little extra summer.
People living in cubicle. People living in deserts. People living in storming snow. They are all people trying to make a place for themselves in this world which we call beautiful. People need to know who they are and what they are here for. Time does not stop for anyone. People need to figure out things before it's too late.
I saw him looking at the red bicycle. It was the same his mother had gifted him for his last birthday. His mother... he missed her. Soon after I saw him reaching the bicycle to climb. Reminiscence was all he felt. The red bicycle was the last memory his mother had left him with.
She was herself. She felt loving was not for her. Yet she gave herself away for that something she thought was never meant for her. She nurtured the love for nine beautiful months. She was the most glowing and affectionate mother to her radiant son. Loving hurts the most; but the face of her son shone like the brightest star of the darkest nights in her life. Till she became herself again.