Plane view

The death of voices swallowed the last good night. Shh. Quiet now.

The last kiss.

Sitting in quiet for countless hours, wondering what would have happened if I had not listened to some precaution, wondering what would have happened if I didn’t board a flight of wings to a polluted zenith. Books spoke no interest, music sang their bland and uninteresting lyrics, and writing tired the weakened, indefinite hands – so I watched a Francois movie. Staring at a lifeless screen, flashing its colours of a traumatised family and its battle against Indo-Chinese richmen and other pretentious Frenchmen. Emotions only seemed to watch the strangely disregarded relationship of a French girl and a Cambodian man, unrequited on both sides of the warground yet longing for what seemed like an impossibility – so he buys her a ring she could never have. I learned nothing except love is always a struggling war, oblivious to everyone except you.

Minutes later, I wrote.

Movieolas mindlessly passed, unconciously sending subliminal messages into my brain that I have no drive to interpret. I sat quietly, waiting for something to happen from the hours spent wasted. It only takes 7 hours for your soul to fly in love again, but it only takes 7 hours to wake up a dreaming mind in euphoria. Nightmares continue for months.

After a dinner of nothing but meat, I set my luggage down.

Suns passed monotonously with its gaudy, prismatic needles filled with beer and elusive love. I longed for rain instead – raindrops of veracity and sorrow to wash upon my eyes.

Listening to nothing but Sarah McLachlan and Emiliana Torrini for days, I began to wonder why songs always allude to love. Could love be the only drive to art and passion? Could these people sit in their fancy, fenced houses wondering how life would be without love? Perhaps these people know that we suffer from love, quietly or passionately, on such a common basis that these love songs could bring another love for currency.

Finally, after weeks of complaints and threats to my lethargy, I moved my luggage.

Beginning to realise that going back to school will bring nothing but nostalgia like cleaning out the luggage, I thought of how time, as it passes indefinitely and in the dark, will tell its story.

Once again, I sit in a dark room of only one distant light. It may take ages before I find out how I will stand under it, whether I bring it to me, or I bring myself to it.

Until then, it’ll be quiet.