SlightlySane
March 16th, 2011, 10:29 PM
When he's lying in bed remembering, he cries. Unsure of why he cries, he allows the tears to slowly glide down his cheeks and onto his pillow, darkening the blue and white stripes that decorate it. So many things accent his recent past to make it something he can never forget. The high lights of his life are constantly revived in the future. He's not living in the past. Actually, he is quite certain that living in the past would never allow him the future he is about to go forward with. Still he wonders if the past really does repeat itself as they say it does. It could possibly be that everything does happen for a reason, and that reason being that it may happen again. This time, it may happen again with lessons taken from the previous occurrences. It's a nostalgic feeling thinking about the future. Though this may seem as it is something of an oxymoron, he believes these words could not be more honest. He lies under a single sheet as it is humid in the summer heat. "Just like last summer," he remembers.
Though while he lays in bed tonight he does not worry as much about preventing the sweat stains upon his shirt. How could he worry about that tonight? A year ago he was barely sleeping for his excitement was too great to bare. Tonight he is not sleeping, but for reasons not of anticipation. Tonight he lies conscious because he knows, should he fall asleep, his dreams will remind him of what had been there that is lacking now.
He wonders if other men lie as he does tonight. Tears coming at a consistent flow as though a river is preparing to create a new pool of memories. "Do they rest in there beds remembering love," he asks out loud, "or have the already mended there hearts in preparation for another potential soul to bring them joy?"
Of course no one can answer him this. He does not expect the emptiness of his single bedroom apartment to converse with him the matters of life and love within it. Looking over to his bedside clock he observes that it has just now reached eight-thirty in the evening. Never has he retired so early during a Saturday night except for one night in within a year that has past. "So, history does repeat itself. Just in other ways," he assures himself through a shaky tear-jerked voice. A year ago this late august night would have been something that could have passed on fast enough. Now it is has come back again far too soon. He wishes for a way that he could simply ignore that it would not be something so beautiful as the day had been then. Many times he's made plans to take a trip back to those places. To come across the things that would remind him more than anything of what he had lost. Being reminded cannot bring back what is being remembered though.
As the night progresses his body requests that he allow himself to close his eyes and drift away for the night. However, he does not want any chance that his dreams may come back to haunt him again. It is not nightmares that fill his nights with pains. He dreams the most pleasant dreams he has before. Dreams of how the world used to turn, but he awakes to find that the axis of reality has still not bent to his own longing. He'll dream all night long about the most beautiful person, amazing places, and incredible moments. The words, "lets make a memory," will ring in his ears long after his dreams have receded into his subconscious again. He'll rise with fresh tears already beginning a journey down his face. A face that hold eyes scarred by the loss of a love he could compare to no other feeling. Looking into them you will see deep into a world that no longer belongs to his soul. While his smile may try to mislead you, his eyes will always mark what he wishes for the most. His scars have branded him harshly. This is because each moment he sees the reflection in his own eyes, it is not he who glances back at him. Always will he hold a vision of the day in his past that began the most beautiful days he has ever lived for. Tonight, he's laying in bed. He is crying for a chance to configuration the hands of a magical clock to transport him back to the moment, and never force him to leave again. Tonight, each spot stained on his striped pillow will represent the scars that he feels upon his once opened heart. Sometimes, we have to remember everything, so that we may let it all go.
Though while he lays in bed tonight he does not worry as much about preventing the sweat stains upon his shirt. How could he worry about that tonight? A year ago he was barely sleeping for his excitement was too great to bare. Tonight he is not sleeping, but for reasons not of anticipation. Tonight he lies conscious because he knows, should he fall asleep, his dreams will remind him of what had been there that is lacking now.
He wonders if other men lie as he does tonight. Tears coming at a consistent flow as though a river is preparing to create a new pool of memories. "Do they rest in there beds remembering love," he asks out loud, "or have the already mended there hearts in preparation for another potential soul to bring them joy?"
Of course no one can answer him this. He does not expect the emptiness of his single bedroom apartment to converse with him the matters of life and love within it. Looking over to his bedside clock he observes that it has just now reached eight-thirty in the evening. Never has he retired so early during a Saturday night except for one night in within a year that has past. "So, history does repeat itself. Just in other ways," he assures himself through a shaky tear-jerked voice. A year ago this late august night would have been something that could have passed on fast enough. Now it is has come back again far too soon. He wishes for a way that he could simply ignore that it would not be something so beautiful as the day had been then. Many times he's made plans to take a trip back to those places. To come across the things that would remind him more than anything of what he had lost. Being reminded cannot bring back what is being remembered though.
As the night progresses his body requests that he allow himself to close his eyes and drift away for the night. However, he does not want any chance that his dreams may come back to haunt him again. It is not nightmares that fill his nights with pains. He dreams the most pleasant dreams he has before. Dreams of how the world used to turn, but he awakes to find that the axis of reality has still not bent to his own longing. He'll dream all night long about the most beautiful person, amazing places, and incredible moments. The words, "lets make a memory," will ring in his ears long after his dreams have receded into his subconscious again. He'll rise with fresh tears already beginning a journey down his face. A face that hold eyes scarred by the loss of a love he could compare to no other feeling. Looking into them you will see deep into a world that no longer belongs to his soul. While his smile may try to mislead you, his eyes will always mark what he wishes for the most. His scars have branded him harshly. This is because each moment he sees the reflection in his own eyes, it is not he who glances back at him. Always will he hold a vision of the day in his past that began the most beautiful days he has ever lived for. Tonight, he's laying in bed. He is crying for a chance to configuration the hands of a magical clock to transport him back to the moment, and never force him to leave again. Tonight, each spot stained on his striped pillow will represent the scars that he feels upon his once opened heart. Sometimes, we have to remember everything, so that we may let it all go.