This is simply a brain damage.

Feelings don't possess directions, they're not vectors, they're not quantities, they're not measurable, thus they're not scientific. They are projections of you talking to yourself in the most honest, dark, sarcastic, and imaginary ways.

This is simply a brain damage. When you have more alcohol flowing in your veins than blood. More pain in your body than strength. 

Your logic is walking hand to hand with your sub cautious, both of those bastards questioning your more than honest feeling. You feel connected to something but it isn't necessarily the God, or any higher power. 

It is you reconnecting to yourself - telling the damn logic and all the scientific crap that tries to suppress your feelings to leave you alone. 

Yes, I may not be in my most sober state right now; however, I'm drunk enough the appreciate the wind. The music from the East. The wine. The distant loud scream of a Harley Davidson. This is me being fully ignorant to things that potentially can invite logic in my damaged brain and cautious to things that can bring back the feelings.

  

"Please don't take my sunshine away."

Once I had the perfect sunshine.. 

We don't tend to feel the pain of the loss of the sunshine so immediately. Maybe it's because we've been continuously told that sun will rise up again... Tomorrow, the first thing after the darkness. The long lasting darkness. The long lasting and never ending darkness. A kind of a darkness that light wouldn't even dare to walk in. 

When you understand the fact that the damn sunshine ain't going to rise and shine anymore, that's when you walk up to that cabinet on the top left corner of your kitchen and you aggressively grab that bottle of Jack, pour it hard in your favorite Whiskey glass that's been sitting there for about two and a half years, reserved for darkness. You drink it to put down the pain of your loss and wash down your flames with a 45% gasoline and hope that it works. 

You put on your old motorcycle boots. Put on your leather jacket with the bald eagle sewed on to it. Put on your gloves, load your gun, and walk up to your ride, half drunk half blind. Hear your engine scream, in the confusion of life and dream, "hang your head low, and hear the wind blow."