You are only lost. Your body is cold. For you lack your soul. You lost it a while ago. Love, you lost it so many years back. In the year you could not even grasp the concept. The concept of having a soul. You were young then. You are old and worn out now. You used to think much of the world. But as time flew by, you lost sight of it. Between the years, you saw much more than you wanted to. Much more than you thought you’d see. You saw what you thought was just some terrible nightmare. But you saw this with eyes open. When you were young you saw well, you were optimistic. You were an ocean, bounding fearlessly, ebbing onto unknown shores, and drawing back the wisdom. Years ago you ebbed onto the wrong shore; saw the pure hatred in the world. Saw it with your simple soul. You flowed back with wisdom, you flowed back soulless.
Pack your bags, head out the door. Finding words that rhyme with soul. Skipping cracks in the sidewalk, from your small little house, to your old car. Before hopping into the car, pretending as if you are still young, you watch it. Stare at it with those empty eyes of yours, stare it hoping to break something inside of that car. You notice how dull it is, how not eccentric it is, how completely boring it is. You leave the cracked sidewalk, and continue into the car on your normal route. Normal. Route. Routine. Oceans don’t have routes and routines. What are you doing? Normal. Route. Routine. Oceans don’t.
Inside The Bore. That is what you call it. The car. You call it The Bore. You’re steady in your seat. Your face pressed against the glass, in a childish fashion. You like that. Being in a childish fashion. It makes you feel young again. The Bore shuffles and your face slide down the glass, and you see the road. The never-ending asphalt. You have learned how to walk. Learned how to cope with the constant walking. But you never gave up on the asphalt. How it never stopped, and there was no beauty to it. It annoyed you how everyone who lived here, just rolled on it like it was the usual. Sadly, it was. You were sickened by the very thought of stopping. You were sickened by a lot of things. You watch the trees fly beyond you, fly even though they are bound by roots and dirt. The worms love them. Love their beauty, and so do you. You want to climb them all the time; you want to reach the top. You want to learn their wisdom, how are they so beautiful still in this ugly place? You wish you were like that. But what you want most of all is to love and be loved. You feel like this is the greatest failure, the greatest failure of yours. Of all the many. You don’t know though. You want to think you are wise, and have traveled the world like no other. You have. But you still cannot see who you truly are. You have lost sight of that, as you have many things. Ever since.
You wish The Bore the best, and leave his steady seats inside. You slam the door, as if to be patting him on the back. The Bore appreciates that. He loves you, loves when you stare at him so intensely, hoping for something to break. When you leave, The Bore is sad, more sad then he was before he met you. For when you are inside of him, he feels happy, happy to accompany. The Bore sees your wisdom and your journeys, sees just how delicate you are. He wishes that he knew you when you were the ocean. The Bore wishes that when you were the ocean, he could have been a boat. A steady boat for you to rock around and lull to sleep. But The Bore only met you when you came to his little town. When you first set eyes on each other, you had not lost your sense of self yet. A rush of euphoria pushed The Bore further; he was compelled to know you. And now? He does. His spirits drop as you walk into the building. The Bore knows you, and you know him. But sometimes he thinks you do not care about him.
You enter the building, in a rush almost. In a rush to get to the place where you can be fake. The Bore knows this, knows you are fake when here, and he hates being driven there. He worries that your fakeness will become real. The Bore is afraid of losing you, losing the real you. You meet your fake friends, laugh your fake laugh, skip you fake skip, and love with your fake love. Then you write. You write to me. You write to keep yourself alive. You keep me from my boring life, you keep me interested. In everything.
Have you told The Bore about me? I wonder what he thinks of me, and I wonder if we think the same about you. He is unique, The Bore, he is special, he is rare, something more people do not have and cannot see. I have no one like him. I love watching you write. You write so beautifully, not a beat of fakeness. When you write, you have an aura, one that enlightens the thinkers around us. It makes me smile. When The Bore sees you write, he is enlightened as well. He feels gleeful, watching you so delicately through your window and drawn shades. You draw the shades to let the light in, but sometimes, you draw the shades for The Bore. But you don’t know that is why. He loves when you do, he loves seeing your black hair fall over your face as you write. When you push your hair behind your ear, and he can see your face, he feels as though he knows you best.
Pack your bags, head out the door. Finding words that rhyme with soul. Skipping cracks in the sidewalk, from your small little house, to your old car. Before hopping into the car, pretending as if you are still young, you watch it. Stare at it with those empty eyes of yours, stare it hoping to break something inside of that car. You notice how dull it is, how not eccentric it is, how completely boring it is. You leave the cracked sidewalk, and continue into the car on your normal route. Normal. Route. Routine. Oceans don’t have routes and routines. What are you doing? Normal. Route. Routine. Oceans don’t.
Inside The Bore. That is what you call it. The car. You call it The Bore. You’re steady in your seat. Your face pressed against the glass, in a childish fashion. You like that. Being in a childish fashion. It makes you feel young again. The Bore shuffles and your face slide down the glass, and you see the road. The never-ending asphalt. You have learned how to walk. Learned how to cope with the constant walking. But you never gave up on the asphalt. How it never stopped, and there was no beauty to it. It annoyed you how everyone who lived here, just rolled on it like it was the usual. Sadly, it was. You were sickened by the very thought of stopping. You were sickened by a lot of things. You watch the trees fly beyond you, fly even though they are bound by roots and dirt. The worms love them. Love their beauty, and so do you. You want to climb them all the time; you want to reach the top. You want to learn their wisdom, how are they so beautiful still in this ugly place? You wish you were like that. But what you want most of all is to love and be loved. You feel like this is the greatest failure, the greatest failure of yours. Of all the many. You don’t know though. You want to think you are wise, and have traveled the world like no other. You have. But you still cannot see who you truly are. You have lost sight of that, as you have many things. Ever since.
You wish The Bore the best, and leave his steady seats inside. You slam the door, as if to be patting him on the back. The Bore appreciates that. He loves you, loves when you stare at him so intensely, hoping for something to break. When you leave, The Bore is sad, more sad then he was before he met you. For when you are inside of him, he feels happy, happy to accompany. The Bore sees your wisdom and your journeys, sees just how delicate you are. He wishes that he knew you when you were the ocean. The Bore wishes that when you were the ocean, he could have been a boat. A steady boat for you to rock around and lull to sleep. But The Bore only met you when you came to his little town. When you first set eyes on each other, you had not lost your sense of self yet. A rush of euphoria pushed The Bore further; he was compelled to know you. And now? He does. His spirits drop as you walk into the building. The Bore knows you, and you know him. But sometimes he thinks you do not care about him.
You enter the building, in a rush almost. In a rush to get to the place where you can be fake. The Bore knows this, knows you are fake when here, and he hates being driven there. He worries that your fakeness will become real. The Bore is afraid of losing you, losing the real you. You meet your fake friends, laugh your fake laugh, skip you fake skip, and love with your fake love. Then you write. You write to me. You write to keep yourself alive. You keep me from my boring life, you keep me interested. In everything.
Have you told The Bore about me? I wonder what he thinks of me, and I wonder if we think the same about you. He is unique, The Bore, he is special, he is rare, something more people do not have and cannot see. I have no one like him. I love watching you write. You write so beautifully, not a beat of fakeness. When you write, you have an aura, one that enlightens the thinkers around us. It makes me smile. When The Bore sees you write, he is enlightened as well. He feels gleeful, watching you so delicately through your window and drawn shades. You draw the shades to let the light in, but sometimes, you draw the shades for The Bore. But you don’t know that is why. He loves when you do, he loves seeing your black hair fall over your face as you write. When you push your hair behind your ear, and he can see your face, he feels as though he knows you best.