I think I can feel the world passing by. One minute at a time. While I sit here and desperately seek out something to do. Searching, searching, eyes glancing from one thing to the next, hands fidgeting.
Seconds cease ticking by. Even the clock has stopped working. No joke. Restlessnessness.
So, writing seems to be the best alternative to avoid premature symptoms of high blood pressure and insanity. Thank god for the invention of the written word. Or rather, thank some old, white bearded, bored man for deciding to encode the language.
Or maybe, they’re the same person.
We’ll never know.
All I know is, you like spaghetti alla carbonara. Talking to you is like talking to myself. Which is weird, but kind of amusing at the same time. I wonder if it will ever get annoying. I wonder if we’re just lying to ourselves. We’re too practical, you and I. Biggest hypocrites on the planet. And maybe the biggest cowards too, who knows. You call me a kid and that scares me. Because you know what, I am. Because I don’t want to take things so seriously. Let’s be kids together. Be stupid together. Let’s play and laugh together. Splash in puddles. Run so fast our legs seem like they’ll fall off. Hello-hello each other like idiots. Forget the world and all its problems, because like you said, no one comes out alive anyway.