Time shot a hole in my memory; it’s now a fugitive on the run, a gangster after a robbery. Years disappeared, and melted in the glowing of my life’s summer. There’s old news in the columns of a random newspaper. Gone are the times when they used it as wrapping paper. What was important, one day ever, turned out to be merely a wallpaper tune; a radio voice that chases the silence away.
A man whistles on his bicycle. Happiness ain’t written with capital letters. It doesn’t shout, it whispers. It smells like lavender. It’s a dimmed, soft-tone light, not a spotlight on a theatre stage.
It takes us quite a number of years to discover what we want to do in our life, to know what makes us happy. With each blow of yet another set of candles, we inflate the fire of our own personality, like igniting a camp fire in a moon-lit forest. Hesitant, at first, flaring up, eventually.
And then still, nostalgia may enter, like an unsolicited guest that knocks on the door, a tiny bee that spoils the picnic on a sunny afternoon. We’re confused ants crawling and crossing each other’s anonymous path; meaningless, yet o so busy. It’s hard to be consistent in this ever-changing world, where minutes seem to pass faster than they used to do a few decades ago. We run like a hurdle of restless gazelles in the savanna, desperately trying to keep up. Our biggest fear is to be left out, to be different. And yet it’s so much easier to realize that perfection is not of this world; there’s a production error in each of us.
A man whistles on his bicycle. Happiness ain’t written with capital letters. It doesn’t shout, it whispers. It smells like lavender. It’s a dimmed, soft-tone light, not a spotlight on a theatre stage.
It takes us quite a number of years to discover what we want to do in our life, to know what makes us happy. With each blow of yet another set of candles, we inflate the fire of our own personality, like igniting a camp fire in a moon-lit forest. Hesitant, at first, flaring up, eventually.
And then still, nostalgia may enter, like an unsolicited guest that knocks on the door, a tiny bee that spoils the picnic on a sunny afternoon. We’re confused ants crawling and crossing each other’s anonymous path; meaningless, yet o so busy. It’s hard to be consistent in this ever-changing world, where minutes seem to pass faster than they used to do a few decades ago. We run like a hurdle of restless gazelles in the savanna, desperately trying to keep up. Our biggest fear is to be left out, to be different. And yet it’s so much easier to realize that perfection is not of this world; there’s a production error in each of us.
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