For the Windows in Oceans.

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Time almost takes away reality.

Do you ever sit down and remember something from years past and think: Wow, did that really happen? Was that real? Because, really, those memories don’t seem real at all do they? Its like recalling tiny fragments of a dream after waking. 

I can hardly remember myself living a year ago. Last summer seems so far away, an alternate reality. So much has changed since then. I can only imagine what next year will bring. 

Pondering

I often wonder about my future. It’s kind of like when you take your seat on an airplane: It’s the window seat. You love the window seat. But during the flight, when you attempt to look through the fogged glass beside you, you discover that it is unyielding—only allowing glimpses of scenery here and there. It’s frustrating. The future is always like that. You can only catch glimpses, colors, general layouts.

You know, some people think that when you die you stop existing.

But that isn’t true at all.

You stop existing when people no longer remember you.

The Train

Can you hear that? It happens around this time every night— The whistling of the train. Can you hear that strangely romantic, melancholy sound? It is a cry that sails through the night on wings of shadows and fluorescent lights. It is the call of sorrow. Of confusion. Of loneliness. Of farewell. The sound of that train will dance through the darkness and gently caress the eardrums of the mourners in soft acknowledgement. The sound of that train will waltz into the lives of the euphoric and joyfully sink into the track of their effervescent laughter. 

 Wether the whistling of trains holds meaning in the lives of others, I will never know. But I do know that somehow, in some small way, I was just connected to hundreds of people at once.  

The thoughts I entertain.

I keep thinking about my mortality.

And how everything has been running in circles. 

Each day goes by faster. 

I need to take more risks but risks scare me. 

I should be studying, but instead I am looking up useless information about conspiracy theories. 

And I just want to sleep and have a good dream. 

But I can’t sleep because I can’t stop thinking. 

About driving. About decorating. About art. About music. About the future. About the past. About my weaknesses. About the rain. About the sunset this evening. About others. 

I think about people I hardly know and make up stories about what their lives are like. 

I wish I knew everyone on a personal level. 

Because people and the things they do really interest me. 

I haven’t been able to write a decent song in over two months. 

And I keep thinking about how certain people inexplicably intimidate me. 

I can’t stop thinking. 

Stop. 


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