#impossiblecool
#daddysback
#beforethemusicdies
#hereartomyheart
#баловство
No two sunsets are the same. Some, like the one I saw yesterday, are a tight vortex of orange flames, with lashes of burning clouds reaching out far over the unsuspecting streets and roofs and trees and flower-beds. Some, like today, are a peach-colored night-light for the city retiring after a day too long to be productive. Some, like far too many I've missed, unravel their tender and powerful swathes of watercolors when I'm wasting my time looking eastward, only to mock me from beyond the horizon with reflections of their magnificent palettes upon the stray clouds. Yet every day we look to the west, our inner selves lunge unconsciously toward the escaping light with a violent motion that makes our very frames burn with strain and unfulfilled longing. This spontaneous feeling, the recipe for which is Sehnsucht, Wanderlust and Unrequited Love mixed in equal proportions and inhaled with the humid pre-summer air, endures in the hollow that our heart had left after springing from the chest and into the sunset's fiery glory. There, at our very core, it grows stronger by the minute and fills us with warmth, the same inner heat that leaves the city as the dusk gathers. It is the same heat that makes us go through the night, chasing the impossibility to see daylight again. To open our arms at dawn and to embrace the little fiery knot that has somehow survived a trip around the globe. Then we finally exhale, relieved. We let the feeling, the one that had kept you warm and alive without a heart, flutter off in the morning wind and whisper sweet nonsense in the ears of some unwary soul somewhere. Flutter off and allow us to marvel at the beauty of sunrise, for no two sunrises are the same.
#daddysback
#beforethemusicdies
#hereartomyheart
#баловство
No two sunsets are the same. Some, like the one I saw yesterday, are a tight vortex of orange flames, with lashes of burning clouds reaching out far over the unsuspecting streets and roofs and trees and flower-beds. Some, like today, are a peach-colored night-light for the city retiring after a day too long to be productive. Some, like far too many I've missed, unravel their tender and powerful swathes of watercolors when I'm wasting my time looking eastward, only to mock me from beyond the horizon with reflections of their magnificent palettes upon the stray clouds. Yet every day we look to the west, our inner selves lunge unconsciously toward the escaping light with a violent motion that makes our very frames burn with strain and unfulfilled longing. This spontaneous feeling, the recipe for which is Sehnsucht, Wanderlust and Unrequited Love mixed in equal proportions and inhaled with the humid pre-summer air, endures in the hollow that our heart had left after springing from the chest and into the sunset's fiery glory. There, at our very core, it grows stronger by the minute and fills us with warmth, the same inner heat that leaves the city as the dusk gathers. It is the same heat that makes us go through the night, chasing the impossibility to see daylight again. To open our arms at dawn and to embrace the little fiery knot that has somehow survived a trip around the globe. Then we finally exhale, relieved. We let the feeling, the one that had kept you warm and alive without a heart, flutter off in the morning wind and whisper sweet nonsense in the ears of some unwary soul somewhere. Flutter off and allow us to marvel at the beauty of sunrise, for no two sunrises are the same.
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Эту запись оставил(а) на своей стене Егор Юрескул
