Another sleepless night where I get lost in the my most recent favourite memory, sitting in a bus stop watching the dark blue sky becoming pitch black, observing the cars passing by, observing the reflexion of the lights in the dark road, some a bit dim others brighter, just like so many moments I have watched passing by, some as part of them, some as an humble spectator acquiring an experience which doesn’t belong to me, loved watching all these cars passing by, every car a moment, another memory, past, present, future, a gate between time… Could of stayed there for endless hours, following the lights, each one of these different lights carrying different lives, random people going to their different destinations known and unknown.
I sat and relaxed, ignoring the cold and the rain, felt the warmth of my thoughts running through my soul, listening to the narrator hidden in a discrete corner of my mind, speaking of that moment like it was unique, so special, and atypically focusing only on the moment the cars were passing by, wasn’t relevant to know where they were going, wasn’t important to wonder about the beginning of their journey, was all about the diversity of the subdued lights and what they represented in that very moment. Was all about those reflexions that instantly faded away on the pavement, was about the now, a now that can very rapidly disappear becoming something else, nearly as it is happening but not even that was important, only the lights were important for the narrator on another lyrical delusion.
Lyrical, cause you need to be a poet to see “the lights” grab them like a common object and turn them into a dove, believing that the magic is already there.
I sat and relaxed, ignoring the cold and the rain, felt the warmth of my thoughts running through my soul, listening to the narrator hidden in a discrete corner of my mind, speaking of that moment like it was unique, so special, and atypically focusing only on the moment the cars were passing by, wasn’t relevant to know where they were going, wasn’t important to wonder about the beginning of their journey, was all about the diversity of the subdued lights and what they represented in that very moment. Was all about those reflexions that instantly faded away on the pavement, was about the now, a now that can very rapidly disappear becoming something else, nearly as it is happening but not even that was important, only the lights were important for the narrator on another lyrical delusion.
Lyrical, cause you need to be a poet to see “the lights” grab them like a common object and turn them into a dove, believing that the magic is already there.
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