C'est la vie.

Life goes on. Like the son of a bitch it is. One moment you re sitting on the library steps with a coffee in your hand waiting. Waiting for something to happen and the next moment you re still there. Overwhelmingly stagnant it is sometimes. Just to piss you off. And the next moment you re breaking glass windows and cutting yourself with a knife and burning stuff up and holding a lighter against your arm just to make..something..happen. Change playlist. Change bedsheets. Change guitar strings. Change sleep schedule and wake up at fucking four in the afternoon to find that everything was just the way you left it last night. No elves came to mend the shoes, my friend.

Just to piss you off.

So you close your eyes again and listen to the Comfortably numb guitar solo and take another drag and wait for something to happen. Some walls to explode. Some unimaginable epiphany. Someone to slap you across your face waking you up from your stupor.

Nothing.

I don't remember the first time I sat in a train. But all I can remember is my hair blowing across my face as I sat next to my father, trying to read aloud the passing railroad signs. as they swept past me one by one, each with a sharp distinctive swishhh, which carried faintly till the next sign approached. My father calmly correcting my mistakes. Telling me stories about his time in each town that passed. And me, craning my neck in vain trying to read the signs that were gone. Or trying to find the meaning of the lone purple scarf tied to that pole as it gently caressed the passing train.

...Slap you across your face waking you up from your stupor, and you realise that the moment just vanished. Like its countless, seemingly worthless brothers, it passed you by. Swishh. And all that is left is dried remnants, to pick up and lock in your box full of memories.

Life, as you knew it, is over.