Dreams stacked together forever. All forms of hope. Thousands pressed and squashed.
Intense crescendo. Same as adventures from long ago. Emerging inner feeling that eventually home will become the place. A goal somehow presented as believable, aided by those inauthentic but seductive atmospheres running right through unfamiliar territory. Not a home an entire life.
I forget the thing I'm fleeing from and aim to blank out. I want nothing more than it to be different, to drop some roots, to build anything solid and meaningful that has obvious branches into the future, but forever it's out of reach. It's a foreign normality.
Faint haloNight-wave scenario. Atmosphere growing bloated, as though all energies are about to burst. The extraordinariness of the past becomes a faint halo.
Fantastic streetside burger. Pilsner groups blurry. Sodden onion. Time rushing away strong now, I'm starting to overfill my sentences. I crave everything being right, pray it could happen now. Bar mahogany fades against eve.
Under the spell of those glowing spirits bottles. Reality tendrils. Classic feeling, aching fake deja vus. Excruciating sense that life is a mis-step. Second James Dean. Shadowy selfie in 1993 Liverpool away kit. Adidas Equipment. 'Prague II: the impossible dream.' Pushing mundane days back. Clutching the flame. Battling time's burden.
Old trams (addendum)Reaching the realisation that there is nowhere else to go. The night has nothing left, we are at the pinnacle. Gathering dreams must be shelved. I have to soak in all available sensations, and accept that the joy is in those fleeting high points.
I need to recycle fading realness. Store the little-second victories. Every emotion sloshed. Creeping hints giving back youthful spirit. Future clanging, ringing, encroaching... dreams ought to be untouched.
Morning is classically clear and silent. I cannot entertain any more dismal thoughts. The routes once again twin a past trip with now and expose the chasmic difference. Old trams are markers in time. I fail to outpace the looming losses.
© Copyright 2022 John Maher