domingo, 3 de janeiro de 2010

Love.

I remember seeing Carrie in front of the screen, wondering about it. Maybe about the true meaning of this little word. Or not...

I remember thinking that maybe, it is not about the word at all.

So I got my pen, reached for a peace of paper...


"The true kind of love.

Is there such a thing?
For me, it's something like the blues...
Maybe right.
When it doesn't goes wrong.
Just perfect.
I thought it could be nice.
Maybe not just for fun.
It could mean something at all.
And it doesn't have to be perfect then...

And I hear they say;
"How hard this is."
I think for a moment.
Risk a lucky guess
Try to run if i miss the point.
And decide to hide behind my mind...

And so...
I write.
Not to you.
Not for me.
For us. Both.

In a selfish way.
Searching for the right words.
Whishing they could find me...

And I feel like falling.
I do.
I die. I cry.
I do try not to.
And suddenly,
I finally realize.
It wasn't about love.
It's about us.
Our little hearts.
Made yet of flash and blood.

Our fears and hopes.
About a simple desire:

"We do not want to be alone in this gigantic world... "
And maybe that's why love is all around...
At least, I think that's why we keep searching for it.
No matter what.

And I do hope, someday,
I'll be able to find out if I was right or wrong.
I do hope I get the chance to just...
Love.

Um comentário:

  1. The chance to love you already have. To live is to love. Even when this feeling disguises itself in a shrouded form, hidden in the haze...

    ResponderExcluir