There comes a time when a cigarette won't keep you satisfied. Love, lust, careless hedonism - all lie blind with the arrival of the time of discontent. This phase of youth, where opportunities should abound, is taken away in a flash when the dull epiphany of 'this-is-not-your-life' strikes. Come on, says a voice very distinct, you aren't what you are trying to be. Happiness is not key here: in fact, you aren't truly happy right now. You're stuck in that place where hope does exist, but isn't plentiful enough to throw away all vices and emotions - and yet, temporary absolution does naught to keep your real self content.
When I recall the passion of you and the memories we made, they do not linger as they did. At first, I'd said to myself, "you must record these feelings, you must be able to relive them!" I wish I'd done that, for I cannot achieve those feelings once more. I think of the summers - so high! so very high! - and I cannot, again, recall the vague knowledge of throwing frisbees past the surf while the sky gloriously waned into inconceivable hues which were never the same the next day. Even the songs that made those long drives oh-so-streamlined and oh-so-perfect don't sing the same way anymore.
It is lost, says the voice. You can never reach those same levels of unrelenting joy again. Like a cocaine rush, the very first experience can never be reclaimed. My first kiss threw my very being (to be is to live, and to live means endless surprises) into a standstill - I deserve that again! And so the hope, the just-enough hope, recuperates as I await even more terribly temporary highs in the days to come.
When I recall the passion of you and the memories we made, they do not linger as they did. At first, I'd said to myself, "you must record these feelings, you must be able to relive them!" I wish I'd done that, for I cannot achieve those feelings once more. I think of the summers - so high! so very high! - and I cannot, again, recall the vague knowledge of throwing frisbees past the surf while the sky gloriously waned into inconceivable hues which were never the same the next day. Even the songs that made those long drives oh-so-streamlined and oh-so-perfect don't sing the same way anymore.
It is lost, says the voice. You can never reach those same levels of unrelenting joy again. Like a cocaine rush, the very first experience can never be reclaimed. My first kiss threw my very being (to be is to live, and to live means endless surprises) into a standstill - I deserve that again! And so the hope, the just-enough hope, recuperates as I await even more terribly temporary highs in the days to come.
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