// Happiness isn't always what we think it is. Sometimes, it's merely the simplest of things that brings us peace, and a state of mind that enables us to see yonder, sometimes beyond what our eyes can perceive. //
My happiness is loneliness and loneliness is an old love song. One that keeps playing even when I've no record player. There's not a singer, nor any lyrics; the beats are nothing but the sounds of many heartbreaks reverberating within the hollow walls of a heart still beating inside me.
I hear the echoes howling back at me; they're wolves, staring with glowing eyes through the dark greens of the uninhabited woods I've abandoned my footsteps, at some, so long gone time.
The cassettes I've in my broken closet of souvenirs are smashed by the heavy log of sentiments I've stored on its highest drawer, that fell upon its own load. I can't re-install those sprung out tapes for they don't fit inside them anymore. Instead I pull them out and hang them like chains of pendant lamps on my ceiling. Glittering and dancing in the zephyr, their movements remind me of the allusion at work in my own mind.
As I lie on the velvety cushions, knitted of fragmented memories, I listen to Thunder, feeling each drop bouncing back, to and fro, within the dull spaces of my mind. The edited versions of my favorite songs, where the tones and voices move together, panning from left to right, as if jaunting in 360 degrees all around my head.
The clock strikes 2:00 a.m., and I feel something plug my earphones out; a penetrating silence invading my yet cloudy consciousness. I panic for fear that I won't say an orison no more, before I fall off into the claws of the monster beneath my sleeping disposition. I lie still, moving not an inch, wishing to return back to the surreal space I've been dwelling in, for quite a while.
As I drift back to the musicality bliss, I realize I'm already dreaming, for the last time I was awake, it was only a simple record player I was concerned with, to play my favourite old song, at some time.
Now I see myself sitting on the broken wooden chair, wondering if broken is a criteria for things to be in my life. The love song titled loneliness, was playing still, on the retro recorder; it's buttons broken, but the sensors worked still, so I pressed on them a little harder everytime I yearn to be some happier.
// The old love song kept playing all over again; sometimes I could hear it in the air I breathed, or in the feeble touch of the fluttering tapes hanging down from the ceiling. I look back at the wooden table; now the record player is broken, few pieces of its record disc forming the supports on which it stood still. My loneliness lives in the service station, still searching for the missing pieces of the record disc, and I wait with my happiness stored on the lowest drawer of the closet, peeking from inside, at the solitary countenance of the midnight's quill, willing me to pen down lyrics for the song I've always lived with. //