Whilst you read all that is to be believed on your news feed, the purposefulness of doing so has no other intent than to share; a shame away from the frame of the screen, it seems, the individual is not so likely. Frankly, it is tiring. Especially when trying to decide between which is worse, becoming excited by a strangers stupor or defining the term living as forever scrolling.
The aims of the game decompose from an imagination of clattering rain personifying the pain of knowing none. It is nine am and he’s still shut eyed from hiding beside the inside of his ears as his tears roll gently off the peak. This bitter beat, stuck on repeat, is kind of like Fleet Streets barber meat; clearly not kosher. Sticking memories of plays to miss, haircuts and clothes to dis scarcely a mention of bliss. It’s still being invisible, after all these years, whilst screaming from the tip of your lung. It’s hope, confusion and emptiness trying to hide senselessly on the cusp of ones invigoration, stifling any contemplation of ones image.
Nevertheless, time can carry the weight of your pain, if you let it. The future holds on, if you make it. So stay positive in remembrance, because whatever tumbles your way; the present is always a present.