when the world dances below you

10 feet below me, couples are dressed in their best, wearing black masks, and i suppose other masks as well, those masks we have when pictures are taken, smiles and makeup and poses, to look our best and pose, shed those pounds that reality doesn't hide. we wear all black to slim us down, make us look amazing and sleek, and drinks are passed to us and bartenders are tipped and words are whispered and smiles creep in. and the night is young and the night is old and everything is alive and everything is dead at the same time. and above i sit, listening to the jazz music quietly creep through gaps in my floor, reminding me that there is some music that doesn't age or get old, that there are some feelings and emotions which humanity holds as true. that sometimes there are moments, and sometimes that is all we have. maybe our lives are divided up into moments, broken pieces put together at the end where we remember the good parts, hopefully, and the bad ones just faded away, like old scars on knees where we fell when learning to walk.

i sat outside tonight beside this bar as one girl walked by, she was dressed up, her dress moving under her coat as she passed by, wearing a black mask like it was normal to wear that everywhere. she smiled, kept walking. never see her again and if i do we wont recognize each other, because i was wearing a mask, too.

i've read about a hundred things today about why this particular day is so good or so bad. and i don't know about any of it. it's just sunday to me. just another day. if you want to be romantic on a day when you are supposed to be, then go right ahead. it matters not to me. even the word romance bring such connotations to it, as every word does when applied in a certain sense. maybe we just shouldn't speak anymore. and let our actions speak for us. when you want someone, you hold them. when you want to kiss someone, just do it. when you want to be with someone, just be with them. no words. we could live in a world of mutes and be just as happy and say just as much with no words, no sounds. just head nods and smiles and small gestures of something.

or maybe i'm insane, or crazy, or both. probably. but that's okay. i just don't care anymore. call me what you will, say what you want. i'm tired. i like who i am, and i think you do, too. and we don't talk anymore, but that's okay when you live in a world full of mutes.

we still got music, quietly creeping through the floor, music that doesn't age.