You. Yes you. You fascinate me.
You intrigue me with your unknown depths of illiteracy and intimacy ( and my obsession with beginners alliteration). Your messy hair and gently sagging skin; passing it's sell by date. What even does that mean? The sunkissed lines surrounding your twinkling eyes of freedom, of passion for adventure and sex. Past the faded jeans and the over-washed t-shirt there's a rocking life of rolling stones and messy nights. The fights, the laughs, the lust and mistrust fill your pale, rouge cheeks with energy and wonder. Those boots were certainly made for walking, and not by any means down the catwalk. A glimpse of mud splatters the fraying cotton edges of your navy lace-ups, clunking awkwardly through the neat pavements of this ancient city. A swift dash into eastern wisdoms should remind us all that your life does not have a sell by date. Ironic really seeing as all life dies. But who's to say what lies before, between, beyond the quiet breath that just consumed one more fragment of this tubes' finite oxygen tunnel. The metal rails screeching against each other as the 6 unruly carriages come to an abrupt stop. Why does it always feel like your about to crash on public transport? Is it just me, or are we really worried about that famous '27 death club' anonymity. We have to rush to get things done even though we know how long they take before we start, the next station never will get any closer on the rusty parallel tracks, although an obstacle is unknown. I stare at you through sleepless eyes, unnecessarily and unknowingly. I don't mean to generate such fear of an intrusion but I want to hear what's in your soul. The lies you've told to make it into work when really where you fit is back on that forgotten track of physical power not paper towers. You're imagining that glint of sunlight warming your slightly wrinkled cheeks amongst the heat of buttercups spreading all around you. Im sure of it. At home in fields of green and yellow not grey and black, the drab, the slack of city souls lost in the void instead of out to pasture like your organic food. Why should you let the chickens roam free on your country farm when you're still caged inside this tube? A loud inscessant screech persists as tracks are forced together when even metal needs it's oil. Allow yourself a moment reader. Personify those metal tracks, it's you and life, you're fighting back. When rust appears or sirens sound they're warning you to take a stand. To give yourself some time away to run in grasslands like a child, and wooop and shout, absorbing sun. Please promise me you won't forget to help yourself, you need a little oiling too, organically, in the wild. Who cares if you are 65 or 22 and what your adventure holds.
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About meI enjoy writing and have had experience from my degree and through working on news posts. I hope to use this blog as a summary of extraordinary things I've discovered or witnessed in everyday life. Archives
March 2020
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