And again he found himself stuck between his headphones and lovesick lullabies. The record spun over and over again, reflecting the dim red light of the lava lamp, which seemed to mockingly mirror his minds maze.

Autumn leaves above his head

He walks down the street

Thinking of the road ahead

And the chances left to meet

Past voices follow him along his way

Clinging to his heart

Pleading him to turn and stay

And tear him apart

Eventually he said, more to himself than to her: ‘Maybe life is kind of like writing stories, poems or Books. For being really able to write good ones we would need to read many and various kinds, good and bad ones equally. Although, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ is a matter of taste.

So maybe we should just try and find our taste and start writing?’

‘The real tragedy here is though,’ She replied in a calm voice ‘that we would need to live many and various different lifes. And maybe we recognize, at some point, that the previous one was more our taste.’

‘Books can be reread.’ He returned.

‘And can lifes be relived?’ She asked, addressed more to the universe than to him.

and after all those years

he was still this boy

felt like he’d never really been anyone else

but this 15, maybe 16 years old boy

not knowing what to do with his life

always trying to play it cool

never really playing anything

but music

as if it was his fuel

that kept his engine running

just like that rabbit from the TV ads from his childhood

now he was walking late evening through the city

which seemed to prepare for dinner all along

walking

powered by this very fuel of his

the late evening breeze in his hair

the late evening lights in his face

the late evening scents in his nose

walking past the already sleeping homeless

walking past the last stores still opened

the people crossing his way were as versatile as the city itself

riding on their bike

driving in their car Read More »