Walk Me Across The Water

A foggy smile. A shining night.
Every noise, every voice, every whisper.
Each vision, each illusion, each image.
Each tune.

He sits. He stands. He waits for something to happen. Nothing does. He sits back down, frustrated over the triviality of life, or the triviality of everything that makes life important.
He frets. He fumes. He’s angry.
He sits in gloom. He’s worried, he’s tense.
He’s wearing a deep rooted mask of pretence, an almost susceptible stoic veil of happiness.

His mind wanders to the days lost, locked up safely (or unsafely) in a small box of experience. His thoughts race to the days to be gained, if only by a relaxation of his thoughts. About everything, about nothing.

When would the days come back? Time is, after all, merely an illusion to distract you from the present. To make you think about the undeniable connection you had with the days that can’t return, or make you muse over the moments that you will capture in what is to come. Time, a disillusionment we attempt to escape from before it can escape us.

He wants to know the reason for it all. He wants to know himself. Who doesn’t want to know themselves? But he wants to really understand. Motives, actions, incidents. He wants to know. Sights, sounds, and feelings.
He wants to hear. Every noise, every voice, every whisper.
He wants to see. Each vision, each illusion, each image.
He wants to hear Life’s melodies. Each tune.