It was a cold winter morning mid January, it was a little heavier to breathe as I walked from my home . There are moments in the walk where I feel; having done this over and over again has let my brain think of other random things. I don't need to worry about the walk itself. The music track changed in my ears to a slow and subtle piano piece called "one morning". I walked past the parking lot, the restaurants in the way and the familiar places that I don't visit anymore. I have fewer reasons to do so in the first place. I have dressed up just the same, been ready for things in just the same ways and yet the day was a different one. I looked at the shadows in between places where the day wasn't bright enough and neither warm.
Shadows in the Sun
Can you tell me if I write to fiction or reality tonight?
Can you separate the two, the fear, the anxious me, the part of me that chooses to fight?
Can you remind me of every time you felt the characters were so alive,
That you stopped and figured what if they made it though, was the story as much yours as mine?
Who can tell me that we are living in reality or simply a larger story in part?
We are playing improv, our lines were unwritten , we were told to just choose a place to start
The shadows in the sun outside, are places where you will sometimes find,
Those who have learned to write their stories somewhere, and yet refuse to draw within the lines
I am an actor in my own play, my lines , my writings are sometimes real to me,
And for whatever part that we must play, what I write to you is just a part that wants to be free.
Oh meaning in between the lines, Oh words that frame themselves from time to time,
You are often read back again & again, like memories that I hold & some that are on constant rewind.
The stories of the night, feel so real to me , I refuse to separate my thoughts for a while,
I am the hero in my head, the villain too, and all the roles wherever I get to play a part.
Can you find the real me, as I look for you, do you think we have changed over and over again,
We have become like words, like poetry, just a character we live and sometimes play.
Shadows in the Sun
Can you tell me if I write to fiction or reality tonight?
Can you separate the two, the fear, the anxious me, the part of me that chooses to fight?
Can you remind me of every time you felt the characters were so alive,
That you stopped and figured what if they made it though, was the story as much yours as mine?
Who can tell me that we are living in reality or simply a larger story in part?
We are playing improv, our lines were unwritten , we were told to just choose a place to start
The shadows in the sun outside, are places where you will sometimes find,
Those who have learned to write their stories somewhere, and yet refuse to draw within the lines
I am an actor in my own play, my lines , my writings are sometimes real to me,
And for whatever part that we must play, what I write to you is just a part that wants to be free.
Oh meaning in between the lines, Oh words that frame themselves from time to time,
You are often read back again & again, like memories that I hold & some that are on constant rewind.
The stories of the night, feel so real to me , I refuse to separate my thoughts for a while,
I am the hero in my head, the villain too, and all the roles wherever I get to play a part.
Can you find the real me, as I look for you, do you think we have changed over and over again,
We have become like words, like poetry, just a character we live and sometimes play.
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