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All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Gary Jules
A million faces out of which, in the end, you're going to remember none. What do you need them for?
They're like a summer storm, leaving the dampness of a day that could have been different.
Sunnier. Less chaotic. More productive? Less personal. More romantic.
Different.
You've been saving something that, after all, you can't wait to get rid of. A real shower, to take away residues of the fake one. Fake like the images and the smiles, which survive just because the rule shows us how, as will and patience fade, drunkenness grows, administering easy "savoir faire".
What did you bring home with you? Knowledge, for sure. Comprehension of the people with whom, despite your will, you'll have to deal with, You could arrange them like clothes in a closet. A giant drawer filled with stuff you would never wear.
Your favorite ones, a little bit worn, are there, separated from the rest, If they didn't get dirty, eventually, you would wear them all the fucking time.
Most of that stuff, though, doesn't really fit you.
The storm. All that dampness really sticks to your skin, doesn't it? You got it already, there's no escape. You killed your professional romanticism some time ago, choked it on the bed with a pillow. But it's still there, barely alive, waiting for a miracle to wake it up.
You can feel it, deep inside of you. Kicking, fighting not to die, because there's no return once you're on the other side. Just grey and gold without hope.
Or maybe poetry just belongs to the ones who create it. An autistic of feelings? You will explode. Grim forecast.
That's the mistake: stop forecasting. Let yourself go and stop judging.
Defeatist.
Hidden among that million faces there's everything. The love of your life, a good friend of yours, your boss, your worthy opponent. People you will love and respect in many different ways. The world is there. It might not be "The world I love", like the catch phrase, but it's there nonetheless, with all the passion and the disappointment that wine itself can give you.
