Surviving the world, capturing flavors and numb mornings.

“Things are so hard to figure out when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world. ”
― Jack Kerouac

I was always tired of the stillness of time, never got used to it, not even in moments of tenderness which never occurred in the darkness of day, in the lightness of night. A yellow van outside of the building, people shouting in their own slang, fake flowers hanging in the air, and me – pointlessly typing on the old and ugly keyboard, answering calls I didn’t give a damn about, thinking about chasing freedom down in my convertible; dark shades on, success already forgotten behind, not-so-random blue-eyed chick with a fine body next to me not saying a thing, just letting me fucking drive far from the screaming, false, ugly chit-chatting of Cleveland Square, summer ’14. Another four and a half hours until I could walk off the door and go home.

Moments snapping together in the rush, and all of us – just hanging there, carried away by the glorious desire to get stuff, be noticed, all completely happy. Childhood issues, body shaking – on the side, on the back of our minds, sunk underneath the flavor of success, money, fucking around and a dragged survival of this world. We seemed to be numb in moments of full experiencing, missing a morning of ecstasy to avoid the trap of loneliness. We memorized strangers’ eyes in the wrong shade, sometimes on purpose so that we weren’t in touch with anything real.

We wanted the pleasure of repeating our innocence, but it had become a mad hallucination where we solely ended up realizing emptiness, the dirt of the pure thoughts from the past was now a vain dawdling in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there. Mad to be saved, running, failed to live up to indestructible elements of what could have been passion, or just an attempt to capture a move. Leaving felt easy once the rain poured insanely above my weary eyes as if I had seen it all, tasted it, cursed it, wanted it all back but suddenly it didn’t make a difference where I was – the details were life. The strange moments we shared with someone embarrassed of who we were; the moments when we were too confident or too vain to impart the true feelings of things.

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