History repeats itself

     The quiet is what I seek. The quiet is where I want to be. The quiet is all I want. I hope time stops, I hope things don't move, I hope that better things don't happen because where there is hope for the better, there is also a chance for massive letdowns. Where there is a present, there once was a tingling future, in retro colours, not the kind that is static, not the kind that is black and white, in vivid retro colours, with old rock music on, in poignant static blue. Where there is a present, there is an apprehensive future, the kind that brings nightmares, the kind that suffocates you, where gravity weighs heavy on your chest, where the dreamers so to build up nasty hopes that let them die. Where there is a future, the daring rejoice, the daring hope, in their hope they survive, with their dreams they thrive. Where there is a history, the pain only seems to fade, never reducing an inch in your mind's measure. Where there is history, the roses bloom and wilt, the snow melts, the ground drinks the water from the rivers flowing from the skies so high, the bright yellow sun turns napalm. Where there is hope, the wretched history repeats itself.