An Uber Note of Seren(dip)ity
Once again it is proven that love is an ultimate source of one's art. And you don't have to be an artist to spread your endorphins throughout the street. However, one big question remains. Am I old enough to talk about love? Is it the right time to spill all of this cheesiness inside of my lung and every other organ stored under my chest?
To be honest, I don't care. I'm soon to be 23, self-financially responsible (though it's still a very much long way to go to even call it stable), but that's enough and it doesn't matter. I'm a human, and I have tons of firework's sparks under my ribs I can't really contain. And this might be the first bright post I ever create in order to commemorate how a sole existence does have the ability to rock my sanity (yes, I have made you live forever, now multiply it by four).
Drowned in the aftermath of mostly impulsive yet careless behaviour, once a year younger-self got a sprinkle of fresh water with a hint of vanilla assuming the possibility of me majoring Philosophy. "Close", I replied, "It's literature." And like the world was blessed with excessive production of vanilla ice cream until it evaporated and created a bright stracocumulus letting my world washed by saccharine drizzle, I would always check for the 6pm, or 9pm or 11pm, or 2am texts, talking about a certain span of space filled with various idealism ever since.
Then the journey stepped into the door of serendipity. He twisted the original "making fortunate discoveries by accident" into "let's wait and see are we really meant to be exposed by each other, or not". It seemed that the Vanilla planifolia was short at the time, so rather than a vanilla drizzle, it only created a plain somber downpour. But even when the offer was limited at the time, I chose to keep up to his twist, to go on waiting and see.
There were times when his presence was predictable, once in every Monday, once in every two Thursday, and once in every three Friday. But as far as he probably recognises that I am not fond of routine and regularity, he sometimes only sparks once in a month or two. However, he quietly maintains his tag as a homo homini lupus to me. He had me since the first dawn and every other dusk. Surrender was the only logical step I had to take.
As I was raising the white flag, he whispered to me about his fear. The similarity as what I always have is uncanny. "There's nothing more thrilling than to have an image of a company to sit side by side of the horror ride," says the head. And here I am, while a hand still raising a white flag, the other one is offering you for a tango.
There you go, a six paragraph of an uber ride review with Indische Party's "Dance with Me" in the background.
To be honest, I don't care. I'm soon to be 23, self-financially responsible (though it's still a very much long way to go to even call it stable), but that's enough and it doesn't matter. I'm a human, and I have tons of firework's sparks under my ribs I can't really contain. And this might be the first bright post I ever create in order to commemorate how a sole existence does have the ability to rock my sanity (yes, I have made you live forever, now multiply it by four).
Drowned in the aftermath of mostly impulsive yet careless behaviour, once a year younger-self got a sprinkle of fresh water with a hint of vanilla assuming the possibility of me majoring Philosophy. "Close", I replied, "It's literature." And like the world was blessed with excessive production of vanilla ice cream until it evaporated and created a bright stracocumulus letting my world washed by saccharine drizzle, I would always check for the 6pm, or 9pm or 11pm, or 2am texts, talking about a certain span of space filled with various idealism ever since.
Then the journey stepped into the door of serendipity. He twisted the original "making fortunate discoveries by accident" into "let's wait and see are we really meant to be exposed by each other, or not". It seemed that the Vanilla planifolia was short at the time, so rather than a vanilla drizzle, it only created a plain somber downpour. But even when the offer was limited at the time, I chose to keep up to his twist, to go on waiting and see.
There were times when his presence was predictable, once in every Monday, once in every two Thursday, and once in every three Friday. But as far as he probably recognises that I am not fond of routine and regularity, he sometimes only sparks once in a month or two. However, he quietly maintains his tag as a homo homini lupus to me. He had me since the first dawn and every other dusk. Surrender was the only logical step I had to take.
As I was raising the white flag, he whispered to me about his fear. The similarity as what I always have is uncanny. "There's nothing more thrilling than to have an image of a company to sit side by side of the horror ride," says the head. And here I am, while a hand still raising a white flag, the other one is offering you for a tango.
There you go, a six paragraph of an uber ride review with Indische Party's "Dance with Me" in the background.
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