Foto Credit: springday1 via Flickr

What remains at the end of the day?

What remains there, when you’ve shaken off everything.

The polished corner of our lives, squeezed inside a nice suit and a car.What remains when the water of a starry night comes down on your skin? Hands running through my short hair, eyes closed. What’s there to grab when all you have hangs inside the clothes you’ve left scattered on the bed. A long breath fills up my lungs tired of too many sigarettes and a life of racing for a pole position that is so hard to get and so easy to loose.

What remains between those hands that have built where there was nothing and now feel the grains of sands running fast between the tip of my fingers?

What remains when all that is real floats slowly on my memory; slowly but inexorably accumulates dust graying out even those vivid colors.

I’ve see a lot in this world and though I’ve seen nothing really. Sitting on the edge of this little mountain i look at this morbid horizon, soften by the pastel of rosy clouds ruffled up by the evening breeze. I see what’s ahead and a strong sense of solitude shakes me with shivers like cold sweat.

What remains when your eyes have laughed and cried as much as a life can take?

What remains there when all this cannot be told nor explained?

What remains there if all this is just undistinguished matter lasting only for a puff of air in the eternity that time is?

What remains
?

And again for some reason comes the sense of misplacement that goes with beeing once again an observer of the night.

Dancing bodies that take previously composed shape into smudged colors. Make up melting, drinks spilt. Here comes that moment of the night where it all seems a little too foreign and though so dejavu.

I sit smoking a sigarette tired of sitting around asking myself where is the world that i can touch and embrace. Everything pale and greyed out like it doesn’t even belong to my sight. Everything noise and tho silent in its irrequiescence.

A smudge that reminds me of  the difference between the sexy glossy lips tinted red and the overborded colors confused over a woman’s face.

A smudge that brings the elegance and beauty tastless and uninteresting.

Where is the night gone?

What is a Moshball… well have you ever find yourself in the ackward situation of feeling like you’re a bundle of tangled emotions and the words in any language you’ve learned are just not cutting it?

Well that’s a moshball… i think that the image that gets closer to it is a rubber band ball. Something so complex and though so simple to almost be embarrassing. Something that is held together by the everything that we’re made of. Not just our experiences or our lives, but more like a sum of colors and tensions that has brought us to the extraordinary thing we are.

So a Moshball is everytime you find yourself wondering if there’s going to be around to see that very extraordinary thing that you’ve witnessed for a split second. A Moshball is a collection of all the those moments, when it’s too late for a camera or to early to tell someone special.

Moshball’s blog is a collection of all those moments…

Here starts a journey…let’s see where it ends up to.

MB