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at the sea of smokes and sound an old soul trapped inside a boy's body stands still.
movement is not necessary in this place.
vapors creating random patterns of smoke with psychedelic colors move in sync with the music playing inside his being- from the hard beating of the bass drums of his heart, to the clashing cymbals at his head, to the various melodies and lyrics of disgust, hate, excitement, lust, happiness, longing, anger, frustration and all other feelings concocted inside him to the harsh strums of memories triggering a myriad of psychedelic experiences all at the same time.
he loves music. recently, most of his favorite songs from u2's with or without you to radiohead's creep to misterwive's refelctions to lana del rey's westcoast to sia's chandelier calms the fuck out of his chaotic being.
he can buy some really good earphones or that fucking expensive beats by dre headphones and then drown himself with the sea of some really good music that stirs him deep down.
it's like smoking. listening to music, that is.
he always think it's like jumping into that big fluffy sea of clouds when you are riding an airplane.
smoke fascinates him. with enough smoke, he creates temporary clouds. his own clouds.
he seems to not feel much these days. it has been months since it rained on his face. his eyes are dry. his chest always beats that hard kind of bass drop beat but he cannot let tit out.
perhaps he thinks the temporary clouds he create from the smokes he produced with nicotine and weed is a good temporary fix.
he is not lost in the sea of smokes and sounds. he stands still. listening, feeling, trying to express. hoping not to explode like the macro vision of himself one night when every tiny bit of sound made his veins, his organs, his chest, his heart, his ears and his brains explode in not blood but a colors. colors with sounds.
movement is not necessary in this place.
vapors creating random patterns of smoke with psychedelic colors move in sync with the music playing inside his being- from the hard beating of the bass drums of his heart, to the clashing cymbals at his head, to the various melodies and lyrics of disgust, hate, excitement, lust, happiness, longing, anger, frustration and all other feelings concocted inside him to the harsh strums of memories triggering a myriad of psychedelic experiences all at the same time.
he loves music. recently, most of his favorite songs from u2's with or without you to radiohead's creep to misterwive's refelctions to lana del rey's westcoast to sia's chandelier calms the fuck out of his chaotic being.
he can buy some really good earphones or that fucking expensive beats by dre headphones and then drown himself with the sea of some really good music that stirs him deep down.
it's like smoking. listening to music, that is.
he always think it's like jumping into that big fluffy sea of clouds when you are riding an airplane.
smoke fascinates him. with enough smoke, he creates temporary clouds. his own clouds.
he seems to not feel much these days. it has been months since it rained on his face. his eyes are dry. his chest always beats that hard kind of bass drop beat but he cannot let tit out.
perhaps he thinks the temporary clouds he create from the smokes he produced with nicotine and weed is a good temporary fix.
he is not lost in the sea of smokes and sounds. he stands still. listening, feeling, trying to express. hoping not to explode like the macro vision of himself one night when every tiny bit of sound made his veins, his organs, his chest, his heart, his ears and his brains explode in not blood but a colors. colors with sounds.
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