Going down the lane, with four friends she knows since long time who never met her before, they talk to her all the time but she can't say a word to them, even if she tries. She thinks.
Reading about a land no one around her knows about, falling for words she doesn't understand but nicely laughs at, she is this kind of human being that loves everything that makes her laugh. That's kind of silly, she knows.
Squeezing a love against her chest, in silence, hoping it will disappear before someone notice it, even herself. Its not the first time - she says.
Watching the time passing, passively. The moon is so beautiful, and she can do nothing about it but looking up to the sky when its clear untill her neck starts aching, then she stops, turning to the pavement. Something similar goes with the time, she believes.
Going down the lane, going down the lane with colours in yelow, red and purple, willing for stars, willing for rain, willing for life, whatever it comes. Tomorrow she may cry, but the day after she will sing.
Carrying no penny, just going down the lane.
2 dizem que diz:
Cirioso como alguns textos escritos por pessoas desconhecidas descrevem coisas que a gente sente e nunca falou pra ninguém. Apesar de não ter nenhum amigo holandês (tô adivinhando aqui), I guess I'm with you on the lane.
"She is this kind of human being that loves everything that makes her laugh. That's kind of silly, she knows."
É, é realmente tolo, mas um pouco de tolice contribui para toda essa sensibilidade que nos define como artistas ou aspirantes a artistas ou, you know, apenas idiotas.
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