What It's LIke

It's like slow-motion, the rest of the world passing 'round you, oblivious, in blurred color, you in black and white.

It's a piece of a music like a razor, flashing out of nowhere, and you can't stop bleeding memories.

It's not being able to come down.

It's not all right.

It's aching with all your heart for a soft, warm summer night, sitting outside and drinking good wine with old friends, and all you see is snow on frozen ground. It's slowly watching your friends lose interest.

It's yearning for things that will never come again.

It's not being sure, at any given time, whether or not you can really keep it together.

It's everyone wanting things you can't give.

It's knowing things others never will and which you can never truly explain.

It's like nothing anyone can really do or say, despite their best intentions.

It's like silence.

It's like this.