Waiting here for evermore...

Even as they fade from view...

Sometimes I feel like if you just watch things, just sit still and let the world exist in front of you - sometimes I swear that just for a second time freezes and the world pauses in its tilt. Just for a second. And if you somehow found a way to live in that second, then you would live forever. The truth is … I'm afraid of time. I mean, I'm afraid of not having enough time. Not enough time to understand people, how they really are, or to be understood myself. I'm afraid of the quick judgements or mistakes everybody makes. You can't fix them without time. I'm frightened of seeing snapshots, not movies. I'm scared of not being able to spend enough time with you. I'm worried time won't give me the explanations I need. How did it get so late so soon?

Move on, come what may...

Potovanja od misli do misli,

od mesta do mesta,

ta dolga cesta.

Pričakovanja od tebe do mene,

od mene do tebe.

Noči brez spanja dnevi čakanja

in zrno upanja.

Iskanja drugih načinov

za isto početje -

srčno imetje.

Learnt the truth too late...

It's not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing - they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into writing, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me. I can be by myself because I'm never lonely; I'm simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scarum of infinity and eternity, and infinity and eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me.

There comes a time when something changes you. No matter the impact... Where the world no longer beats in time with you. You no longer feel amongst the fray.. And the feeling of loneliness is a brandished armor you wear the rest of your life. It spins its mysterious cocoon, focusing the mind on one place, one time, one rhythm - the turning of the light. The island knows no other human voices, no other footprints. On the shore of isolation you can live any story you want to tell yourself, and no one will say you're wrong: not the seagulls, not the prisms, not the wind.

Lost in the current...

Ease your mind young child, your expecting too much of yourself. Acceptance comes in waves and today you may be drowning but tomorrow you could conquer the entire ocean. Take each day as it comes and flow into it's course, sometimes control isn't the only option. Sit down, rest and re-group for a while - you owe yourself that much. Because when you understand that there is nothing really good or bad in this world in the absolute sense, you focus your attention on balancing everything in the appropriate manner rather than craving for something and discarding the rest. And if you do it right and are extremely lucky, tears shall well your eyes, bringing to the surface an emotion that you had always thought would forever linger out of your reach. You will be at peace.

Think fast, never come in last...

I yearn to stay in this in-between place, where the beauty of the times I have freshly bade goodbye to is still alive and vivid in my mind – almost real – and the reality of my new circumstances has yet to fully sink in. I listen to the familiar melodies that had accompanied me on my journey, and allow the music to evoke landscapes and scenes in my mind. The songs caress my sub-consciousness and fill my being with an airy joy. I am both here and elsewhere. Or perhaps I am everywhere and nowhere. At least for one moment longer. There was something magical about not saying your final farewell, like a door left open in the chill night. Fleeting as a breath, yet filled with life, unlike anything I've ever inhaled before.

Won't relax, no slack, hit the jackpot...

 

There's rivers to cross and hills to climb...

It don't matter to me,

wherever we are is where I wanna be.

And, honey, for once in our life,

let's take our chances and roll the dice.

I can be your lucky penny,

you can be my four-leaf clover,

starting over.

The master of my fate...

 

Writing letters addressed to the fire...

That's what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is. Most people love you for who you pretend to be. To keep their love, you keep pretending - performing. You get to love your pretence. It's true, we're locked in an image, an act - and the sad thing is, people get so used to their image, they grow attached to their masks. They love their chains. They forget all about who they really are. And if you try to remind them, they hate you for it, they feel like you're trying to steal their most precious possession.

Each time, you come out of it a little stronger, and at some point you realize that there are more flavors of pain than coffee. There's the little empty pain of leaving something behind - graduating, taking the next step forward, walking out of something familiar and safe into the unknown. There's the big, whirling pain of life upending all of your plans and expectations. There's the sharp little pains of failure, and the more obscure aches of successes that didn't give you what you thought they would. There are the vicious, stabbing pains of hopes being torn up. The sweet little pains of finding others, giving them your love, and taking joy in their life. There's the steady pain of empathy that you shrug off so you can stand beside a wounded friend and help them bear their burdens. And if you're very, very lucky, there are a few blazing hot little pains you feel when you grasp that you are standing in a moment of utter perfection, an instant of triumph, or happiness, or mirth which at the same time cannot possibly last - and yet will remain with you for life.

Long story short, I survived...

Close you eyes and you can very well see your past. And while you can't change it, the time you have spent, you lived through all and hence you are a hero not for the glorious war, but for the sheer notion that time has not yet swallowed you whole. And the credit for that will always belong to those who are actually in the arena, who strive valiantly; who know the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spend themselves in a worthy cause; who at best know the triumph of high achievement; and who, at worst, if they fail, fail while daring greatly, so that their place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

Take my hand, wreck my plans...

 

Won't relax, no slack, hit the jackpot...

If I'm not grinding, might as well put me in hell.

Labels chasing me because I deactivated stealth.

Fucking hated school, I was saved by the bell.

Ain't so different from you, yeah, why can't you tell?

Cash in, cash out, consider it dealt.

Do this for myself, I ain't do it for the clout.

Never copy lanes, yeah, I took another route.

Always cause 'grains, never shared a bit of doubt.

Consider it delt...

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default. And in fact, it takes only a split second for life to go horribly wrong. To fix the mess, I need a thousand things to go right. The distance from one bit of luck to the next feels as great as the distance across oceans. As something completely out of grasp. Something so far above my current gutter than any ascension is nearly impossible. But, I decided in this moment, I will bridge that distance, again and again, until I win. I will not fail.

Excuse me while I burn my own bridge...

 

Every man for himself...

Distance changes utterly when you take the world on foot. A mile becomes a long way, two miles literally considerable. The world, you realise, is enormous in a way that only you and a small community of fellow walkers know. Life takes on a neat simplicity, too. Time ceases to have any meaning. It's quite wonderful, really; you exist in a tranquil tedium, serenely beyond the reach of exasperation, far removed from the seats of strife. All that is required of you is a willingness to trudge.

At times, you become almost certain that you slabbed this road before, crossed this street yesterday, clambered into these people at least twice today already. But most of the time you don't think. Instead, your brain is like a balloon tethered with string, accompanying but not actually part of the body below. Walking for hours and miles becomes as automatic, as unremarkable, as breathing. At the end of the day you don't think. It's where you were yesterday, where you will be tomorrow. The woods is one boundless singularity. Every bend in the path presents a prospect indistinguishable from every other, every glimpse into the trees the same tangled mass. For all you know, your route could describe a very large, pointless circle. In a way, it would hardly matter.