23 45 & Fivesta family's Ya budu is one of them.
Here I am sitting on the edge of my youth, of when all the roses should be at their blooming peak, when they are the redest; when all the birds are together singing their summer morning orchestra; when all colors in the world fade and zoom and blend and mingle into multi-layered multi-colored kaleidoscopic canvas pictures.
But the truth is, here I am sitting in front of the PC, my eyes fixed on the screen, and I'm increasingly lured into that pseudo experience of adventures, of love, of hatred, emotions, of the world changing and moving around me.
But since nothing has any value from the beginning, even change has no meaning at all.
So time is passing, but in a circle: and we are but marathon athletes running around and around in that circle, with no starting point as well as finishing line.
And so what we have to do, and must do, is to find meanings to them.
The marathon race we are all running.
And I need some Violent Passion now. With a glance of the eyes to a stranger in a public place, I smile wittily, knowingly. Then he looks at me, and during that single nano-second moment, something is born. That distance between us contracts into a breath: he suddenly stands in front of my eyes, his hair gently flutters in the wind, his eyes hungrily investigating my every singly cell and corner, and he whispers: "Kiss me, hug me"
And suddenly the world turns into a giant symphony orchestra....
Roses are red. So is my blood, and his, too.
His hair has a very gentle scent. I sniff it. Like i would the fresh pages of a new book, or something mysterious I happen to find in my drawer.
The time has come. I've to go now.