When I look into your eyes
I can see a love restrained
But darlin' when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain
My step is light, yet my heart is heavy. I've got quite a bit on my mind. It feels as though the seat of all my secret thoughts and emotions is being squeezed like a bouncy stressball, or maybe squashed like an orange. All the pulp and juice oozing out, no, pumped around the systemic circulatory system by the robustly muscular left ventricle, in an endless cycle, perfusing every organ, every tissue, every cell.
I see bubbles.
Everyone is a discrete, multihued, and beautifully fragile bubble. When two (or more) bubbles mildly, ever so gently, touch each another, their area of contact is poignantly small. There is always so much of the other person, or persons, that we don't know about - the rest of the bubble.
Would the two bubbles merge into one bigger, wetter, more reflective bubble, or would it burst from sheer stress when the two surfaces come into too much contact for comfort? Would the bubbles slowly being on their course of natural disintegration, or would the two bubbles bounce off each other, each floating off in their separate ways?
*poke*
How big is my bubble, I wonder. When I scroll down my ICQ list, or browse through my Friendster contacts, someone somewhere would inevitably jerk back forgotten memories of where I've been before, people I've worked with, projects or forums I've worked on and so on. The unilluminated side of the bubble, lacking lustre, lacking shine. Unseen and forgotten.
How much would I see of your bubble? How much would I get to know?
