Regardless of how happy a song is written to be made, there are lyrics that imply sadness. Some call this adulthood. Some call this the process of being jaded with reality. Some call this the practicality of a human being's defense mechanism. I call these choices.
"It's the smell of burnt toast. You made the toast. You looked forward to it. You even enjoyed making it, but it burned. What were you doing? Was it your fault? It doesn't matter anymore. You opened the window but only the very top layer of the smell goes away. The rest remains around you. You change your clothes but its in your hair. It's on the think skin on the tops of your hand. And in the morning, it's still there."
The sight of engraved nostalgia welled sore in the deepest recesses that have been buried. Silenced was the only unintended keeper to outline the facades of the chitter-chatter. Indecision and decisions; a fine line separating them and the utmost difficulty differentiating between either. Around me, there are pasted smiles everywhere and my fingers cannot begin to lift to paint an apt description. Your name is becoming a little to irreversibly etched in what I cannot control to think of. "Bittersweet" doesn't necessarily need to be the only word that best literates what was supposed to make people happy living beings. We have evolved jaded, and for which rhyme or reason? The intercept whereby lovers become spiritedly stronger without one another as a limb, as respiratory required to vitally breathe, a seed that was planted to stop growing.
To date, I have but made poor choices to remain drowning in the sorrow of many history pages of yesterdays. Melancholy has turned into a familiar prick in the back that I can't reach to eradicate but I am fruitlessly trying. I've been trying for such a long time coming that I don't even know if my kind of trying is actually defined as trying.
The littlest things in this God-created world are the greatest things that can happen to anyone in the other childlike-forgotten world. We're all slow dancing in our own burning rooms. Please stay, and dance with me. We'll repeat this same sad song and remember happiness and may that joy derived from nostalgia, take us back in time to the childlike-forgotten world.