Sometimes it's just to hard to write something out. We can try to write something that might touch someone. Something that eventually makes them think and mind about life, and everything it comes with. But most of the time we just get miss-interpreted, not understood or even ignored. Most people fear to be ignored more than get miss-interpreted.
But there's a feeling in the air that refuses to be clear and claims to be discovered. It's something smelling in the spring winds. Maybe the taste of the rain crossing down the skies and reaching noisily the puds on the floor, close to the lamps. It's washing the screams of the cars and the polution of the fuels. It reflects the eyes that are not quite looking, that are not quite seeing anything specifc.
It's in the phone ringing, the silent mobile. It's in the messages of "_ Hey, how're you? _ I'm fine. See you." and then, silence. It's in your silence. It's in your hiden voice over things you haven't said. It's in the things you said but you don't meaned it. It's in the things you said and meaned it but I didn't believed. It was just too late for that.
I may have said things that you didn't like to hear. Things you wouldn't mind if we didn't mean anything to each other. Or even if we did mean something, so deep, so negleted, so dirty... Things only you and me would know for sure, but would never say for sure. Things we would just make and forget the next day, but we'd sorry it anyway.
But I never quite understood things you wrote and never said. Things would make total sense to me if anything about you had made any sense ever! But nothing about you makes sense, still today. The only thing that makes sense is the is nonsense to keep trying to find the sense in you. This looks crazy, but it is really crazy!
All the care and tender were drown in tears that filled your face with the same reflecting eyes that are not quite looking of the rain that washes the spring air. And then you cry. But you're still smiling. And then I die. But I'm still smiling. Because you're smiling and that's all that matters at the end. We went apart across different paths, reaching unknown shores through separate tracks. Although we could see each other, we were distant and divided by an ocean of meaningless words.
Then we remember of the dreams. Things we pretend to be, things we'd like to become and the things we actually were but refused to believe in. We refuse to be ourselves, always trying to reach someone else. Always trying to love someone else when we didn't love ourselves. When nobody loved themselves. When love was not a concrete word, it was just a dream of something that could be love, eventually, if everything went well as planned. But we did not have a plan. Dreams don't plan to be. Dreams are just dreams. They might come and go. Not always the same, not always different from what we thought about it. Maybe we just thought too much about it and forgot to live it. As if it was possible to live in a dream. A dream of us. Distant and divided by an ocean of meaningless words.
But then it comes the silence. And it's difficult to write...













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