You are the corpse of every love song I tried to write, every failed melody I tried to sing and every octave lower, you’ve made me feel higher because every day you make me feel brand new. If only you knew, that the innocence of your smile makes my blood pressure rise and it’s not supposed to make sense because—that’s. love.
And love is supposed to make you feel more human.
Love is supposed to make you sad because she said no. Love is supposed to make you feel stupid because you just tripped in front of her. Love is supposed to make you angry because he left the toilet seat up. Love is supposed to make you feel different because now you gotta shower everyday instead of twice a month, cause you have to somehow smell like heaven for her or a box of oreos because it’s basically the same thing.
You see, love is a wonderful thing. It’s a thesaurus of good feeling things because the feeling of being in it is simply indescribable and I would know cause—I’ve got a love like that.
There’s this thought: human beings are capsules for souls, of which have no gender.
So what if we were just that? Our outer shells used only for carrying and our outward appearances become meaningless. Do compliments retain meaning if our externalties don’t? We comply because our generation does so and our generation doesn’t know better. They love because they claim to know what love is. They hate because they’re insecure. They’re selfish because they’re prideful. They’re reckless because they’re young.
If anything, we become less reverent and instead of our physicality losing its meaning, our souls do. We become soulless rather than soulful; full of society’s bullcrap that we cannot be accepted for our imperfections.
But in fact, we are perfect just the way we are.
Wonderlust.
A strong desire to travel.
And that’s exactly what I crave.
Adventure.
You see, there’s more than what you’re limited to and limits are boundaries fabricated by these walls. We’re only walled in because we feel tied down by our responsibilities. Do we underestimate our abilities? And maybe doubt undermines our ideas. Here’s an idea: What if we just set ourselves free? Free to explore. Exploring the depths of the world only to end up exploring the depths of our souls.
And have you ever thought that maybe the constellations in the night skies are the souls of our loved ones? Maybe their love has fashioned a blanket of stars upon the ones that are left. They’ve left our world only to create an even greater and immeasurable barrier.
Compared to the universe, we are the lesser beings—with a greater purpose.
I feel like my attention span is growing shorter.
With less attention, I seem to have less time. Rather than our love being timeless, it seems more limited. Limited to imagination and freedom that our society prohibits us because of expectations. Yet I always believed that we would be the exception.
With less time, there’s less possibilities, which makes adventure and wonderlust impossible. I lust for expansion of the mind that lacks in this generation and by expansion, I mean open mindedness. Open to the wonders this world has to offer, offering more than what your fixation restricts you from perceiving. We only see what we choose to believe; selective ignorance because nowadays, we could really not give a—
Books will consume you
They blur the lines of reality
and you lose yourself
Are you into me as much as I’m into you, who’s intimately into me? I mean, your uncertainty has got me confusing and struggling with anxiety. I don’t need a gallon of your negativity. The extravagance of your words has gotten me choked up inside, stomaching them butterflies. Oh you keep spittin’ them lies and I can’t help but to listen as I cry. I try to move on but ‘Ooh boy, you got me bad’, badder than Michael Jackson had him whiter than black.
But you don’t give a damn about whether I’m happy or whether I’m sad cause you’re selfish boy, you’re inconsiderate, boy. You’re a player without no game, loaded with a dozen haters, diggin’ all them fakers, but can’t be shaken, boy. Uh, you see, I’m through with your games, your deceiving and the nicknames. You were a good one too but you gave up easily after a short pursuit.
Hope you know what you lost; it’s worth more than what your fitteds cost.
I’m scared. No. Terrified.
Is the progression of us just typical? Is it predictable? Is it a cycle of phases, stages and blank pages of loose ends and thinking too far ahead? I don’t want us to be a typical relation-sht bust; our “ship” only keeping afloat because of addiction to lust. Why should we be labeled with an expiration date and consider the end of us our predestined fate? Fck society for their hallucinations of expectations of pointing fingers and raised voices for ending our “vacation”.
But lucky for us, we got the benefit of doubt.
