They often say that the night is always young. But I’m feeling so old that I always keep on forgetting.
The dim lights are strangely vivid on my memory–how it scatters all across the room, filling every inch of the darkness with its flirtatious, neon colors. It’s odd how superficial everything could get. Bodies sway unevenly in unparallel rhythms of no-brainer music. They didn’t seem to mind the beat anway. I’m so close to believing that everybody is indeed claustrophobic, as the theories would have it. The fear of all these glaring spaces is enough to cling on anyone near the most convenient proximity. I look around me.
The moshpit is eerily jampacked. But the feeling of isolation is haunting me comfortably.
Time never stands still and so are my feet who kept lagging behind, worn-out. Sudden drowsiness rang danger alarms all over me. And I keep asking myself what’s wrong. Apathy could never outrun me, can it? Somehow anxiety still kicks in like a bucket of butterflies inside me. But knowing you’re not coming sooner than i wanted deflates my pocketful of sunshines.
To my future other half: I know, I would never meet you anywhere in this mess.