sábado, 19 de janeiro de 2013

The Frame

This night his mouse trap didn’t work, the noise, instead of putting him to sound sleep brought him memories of regrets. Inside of a melody never heard he saw a multitude of shades of grey. Naively the man though he could keep sanity and not drift away wasting hours away. The drum found its pace with his heartbeat, the guitar chords made friends with anxious fingers and the bass, like always, felt misplaced, just like a lunatic working mind.

Without a doubt he was bad tripping over oxygen, the worst kind, the conscious way of mind wandering. I would wish him well, try to help, but it’s too late to be rescued, the man is already in yesterday land and his pillow can`t bring him comfort, can`t undo his wrong doings.  I could wake him up, but his eyes are pealed to the wall, felling the music, thinking of it as a lifesaver when, in fact, it’s just an anchor. I could turn on the lights but I`m afraid that the colorful bright light will burn his eyes.

All left for me to do is to seat, and watch him to lose himself in self-pity. It’s weird, I can see a frame around him, maybe metallic, maybe wood, but it’s definitely a frame. Weirder still is that his only reactions was when I frown in recognizing the frame… he frown back. 

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