jordan-alan-brown
jordan-alan-brown:

Osaka Line | 09/16/2014

On the train to Kyoto you spilled your guts about what you hated most in me from half a world away. 
There’s a soft, constant ache in my head when I think of the things I’ve done.
Words left hanging in the air, only to be buried in time and permanency.
I wonder if you’ll ever see me again the way you did when I packed my things and trekked the western highways. 
Once a mountain,  stable and secure, 
reduced to dust, a nuisance and insignificant. 
Daydreams of planes plunging to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found one lone passenger anchored by guilt and shame. 

Jordan Alan Brown

jordan-alan-brown:

Osaka Line | 09/16/2014

On the train to Kyoto you spilled your guts about what you hated most in me from half a world away.
There’s a soft, constant ache in my head when I think of the things I’ve done.
Words left hanging in the air, only to be buried in time and permanency.
I wonder if you’ll ever see me again the way you did when I packed my things and trekked the western highways.
Once a mountain, stable and secure,
reduced to dust, a nuisance and insignificant.
Daydreams of planes plunging to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found one lone passenger anchored by guilt and shame.

Jordan Alan Brown

Osaka Line | 09/16/2014

On the train to Kyoto you spilled your guts about what you hated most in me from half a world away. 
There’s a soft, constant ache in my head when I think of the things I’ve done.
Words left hanging in the air, only to be buried in time and permanency.
I wonder if you’ll ever see me again the way you did when I packed my things and trekked the western highways. 
Once a mountain,  stable and secure, 
reduced to dust, a nuisance and insignificant. 
Daydreams of planes plunging to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found one lone passenger anchored by guilt and shame. 

Jordan Alan Brown

Osaka Line | 09/16/2014

On the train to Kyoto you spilled your guts about what you hated most in me from half a world away.
There’s a soft, constant ache in my head when I think of the things I’ve done.
Words left hanging in the air, only to be buried in time and permanency.
I wonder if you’ll ever see me again the way you did when I packed my things and trekked the western highways.
Once a mountain, stable and secure,
reduced to dust, a nuisance and insignificant.
Daydreams of planes plunging to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found one lone passenger anchored by guilt and shame.

Jordan Alan Brown

Japan Sea | 9/15/14

A cramped ride to the coast, cautious words and sand in my shoes. 
Welcomed kindly by the tide and smell of salt water. Heavy lungs carry us above the Sea, like an eagle perched, watching as shadows tell the time. 
Here we are witnesses to all those things destroyed and rebuilt in a lifetime. I wonder when we will rest, or if it’s even worth it.
You only experience these things so often, as quickly as the wave is carried to the stoney beach it is sucked back into the blue abyss, forgotten before it was remembered. 

Jordan Alan Brown

Japan Sea | 9/15/14

A cramped ride to the coast, cautious words and sand in my shoes.
Welcomed kindly by the tide and smell of salt water. Heavy lungs carry us above the Sea, like an eagle perched, watching as shadows tell the time.
Here we are witnesses to all those things destroyed and rebuilt in a lifetime. I wonder when we will rest, or if it’s even worth it.
You only experience these things so often, as quickly as the wave is carried to the stoney beach it is sucked back into the blue abyss, forgotten before it was remembered.

Jordan Alan Brown

jordan-alan-brown
jordan-alan-brown:

September 12th | Jordan Alan Brown

I haven’t felt the rain in seventeen days.

We watched a father and son lose their family name on the street of Insadong.
Quenched thirst and overpriced beer, you grab my arm with urgency, the story of your father brings tears to your eyes. 
I promised to write everyday the morning I left, a vow soon broken by the vivid lights and crowded streets. 
The smell of cigarettes lingers in this train car, like a stranger looming in the alleyway back to the hostel. 
Silence is golden tonight.

jordan-alan-brown:

September 12th | Jordan Alan Brown

I haven’t felt the rain in seventeen days.

We watched a father and son lose their family name on the street of Insadong.
Quenched thirst and overpriced beer, you grab my arm with urgency, the story of your father brings tears to your eyes.
I promised to write everyday the morning I left, a vow soon broken by the vivid lights and crowded streets.
The smell of cigarettes lingers in this train car, like a stranger looming in the alleyway back to the hostel.
Silence is golden tonight.

September 12th | Jordan Alan Brown

I haven’t felt the rain in seventeen days.

We watched a father and son lose their family name on the street of Insadong.
Quenched thirst and overpriced beer, you grab my arm with urgency, the story of your father brings tears to your eyes. 
I promised to write everyday the morning I left, a vow soon broken by the vivid lights and crowded streets. 
The smell of cigarettes lingers in this train car, like a stranger looming in the alleyway back to the hostel. 
Silence is golden tonight.

September 12th | Jordan Alan Brown

I haven’t felt the rain in seventeen days.

We watched a father and son lose their family name on the street of Insadong.
Quenched thirst and overpriced beer, you grab my arm with urgency, the story of your father brings tears to your eyes.
I promised to write everyday the morning I left, a vow soon broken by the vivid lights and crowded streets.
The smell of cigarettes lingers in this train car, like a stranger looming in the alleyway back to the hostel.
Silence is golden tonight.