"Emotions are nothing but heartache", they say, but of course, we only ever hear of a bitter aftertaste.
"I wish I could delete my emotions". Oh, do you?
I think that when a soul breaks, you can feel it. If you're lucky enough to recognise the feeling, you might be able to scramble up the pieces before they turn to dust. Otherwise you fight for your life.
Because suddenly you're wearing sunglasses at 7 p.m., and it's all the kitchen lights can do to shine a weak glow around you. There's people talking, people walking past you, but the room is empty, and you're simultaneously wearing fifteen layers of clothes yet you're naked to the bone. You're alive, but are you, because you don't remember your surroundings in monochromatic tones. But you must be, you're breathing, you can do things, but you're starting to read between the lines of "losing one's senses".
It's like pins and needles, healing. After your foot has fallen asleep and you begin to wonder if you're gonna have to resort to amputation. A breathless, fearful moment, and then the buzzing. Every sensation feels new, forced perhaps, but you take the time to appreciate those that feel good to you. You appreciate an insect you don't know the name of through the lens of a borrowed camera. A solitary lunch at a hidden beach feels good too. Eventually, slowly, the fog lifts enough for you to see your surroundings once more. You buy yourself a camera, now collecting dust on a shelf from the years that's passed. You play the guitar for the love of your life at the hidden beach; she doesn't question the location but loves it anyway. She doesn't know why, but she might.
You know who you are. It's not your fault, you know it too. The fog will lift.
Edit. I thought I missed you, but why should I? You're still here, and I'm here with you.
Because suddenly you're wearing sunglasses at 7 p.m., and it's all the kitchen lights can do to shine a weak glow around you. There's people talking, people walking past you, but the room is empty, and you're simultaneously wearing fifteen layers of clothes yet you're naked to the bone. You're alive, but are you, because you don't remember your surroundings in monochromatic tones. But you must be, you're breathing, you can do things, but you're starting to read between the lines of "losing one's senses".
It's like pins and needles, healing. After your foot has fallen asleep and you begin to wonder if you're gonna have to resort to amputation. A breathless, fearful moment, and then the buzzing. Every sensation feels new, forced perhaps, but you take the time to appreciate those that feel good to you. You appreciate an insect you don't know the name of through the lens of a borrowed camera. A solitary lunch at a hidden beach feels good too. Eventually, slowly, the fog lifts enough for you to see your surroundings once more. You buy yourself a camera, now collecting dust on a shelf from the years that's passed. You play the guitar for the love of your life at the hidden beach; she doesn't question the location but loves it anyway. She doesn't know why, but she might.
You know who you are. It's not your fault, you know it too. The fog will lift.
Edit. I thought I missed you, but why should I? You're still here, and I'm here with you.
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