Saturday, December 5, 2015

By Christopher Jobson
It's been a while since my very last intention to write. I've always wanted to write, but some things seemed quite more important than writing recently. So now, no, I've always come to my stagnation where I just stop, and make more things seem more important than what I had wanted to do. This is my writing.

No, we're not in love, we're not swimming in the ocean and kissing when the yellow sky turns red. I don't know whether I'm angry or hopeless, but I'm pretty sad I don't seem to get enough of you. I planned to begin my driving lesson again, as I have just got my driving license today, since Indonesian polices take bribes. But I planned to drive again, so I could ride with you, into the sunset, stop at night, let the journey be my writings.

How do I pull myself into this infatuation, when I'm afraid to even step on the beach, to touch the water, afraid of cold and mad waves. You didn't hold my hand. You wouldn't care. Simple things, simple words, bible phrase, and your philosophy books, can't ever succeed to make you want to understand. 

I have been in love before.
Not it ended well.
But it felt, distinctive.

No comments:

Post a Comment