Seberapa Pantas

Waiting sometimes becomes almost an art - it seems like nothing is happening, but inside, everything is moving. The world keeps turning, people come and go, but somewhere on the edge of familiar thoughts, there lives a certainty: someone is still important. Such a foolishly serious faith that you can't just dismiss it. The sound of the guitar seems to straighten the shoulders of sadness, and the voice gently argues with despair. There's no tragedy in it, just a tired admission: yes, I waited, I'm waiting, and most likely, I'll keep waiting. Even if everything has long lost its meaning, even if the addressee has already dissolved into their own winds. The song smells of evening air and a little regret. Like the thing that clings to your collar when you get home later than you should. And you seem to understand that you can't bring anything back, but you still catch yourself thinking - maybe someone will change their mind.