Story of my life. Stopping, braking. Starting, accelerating. Smiling, breaking down.
I'm the wave that hits you the hardest. The one you don't see. The only one you don't predict.
Difficult to contain.
Black or white. There isn't a sepia with me. Among other camera effects.
You revisit DMB. #34. Ants marching.
Under the table and dreaming. And you find yourself lowering the volume.
Times have changed, because conversations start with unexpected restraint.
Wonder. Brood. Snap.
There are days when you watch reels of watched stuff. Over and over again. Punch lines have become dialogues you remember. Whether it's with the buffalo or otherwise. He says he really likes this one. And you let it go on. Killing your time, killing the space in your head which screams out for someone..something.
You laugh and you swing with the crowd on normal choc-a-bloc days. He cannot compensate for the change. As much as you might want to convince yourself.
Cause when she left, she took all that with her. Now you're just a note on a scale that isn't yours. So you're really a minor note on a major triad.
Which reminds you that you were supposed to do your pieces for Thursday.
You were filling pages today. And the thickness was a euphemism for the sort of baggage you're burdened with.
The expectations.
Expecting from your unstable self.
I'm a mess in letters spelt out clearly.
Yet you see what you want to see, believe what you want to believe.
So go ahead.
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