Śmiercionośna Pasja
- Reads 54
- Votes 4
- Parts 3
Bo patrzeć wprost na motocykl, nie móc na nim usiąść i poczuć adrenaliny w żyłach jest jak mord straszny. Niby nic strasznego dla zwykłego człowieka, przecież to zwykły kawałek metalu z silnikiem - powie, to nic nie znacząca maszyna - zagadnie z wrogim spojrzeniem. Wariat, dawca, idiota - doda inny. Do kogo pójdą twoje organy? - z drwiącym spojrzeniem mówi inny. Czyś ty zgłupiał? Mózg straciłeś? - nawołują. Szaleniec! - ze wsząd dochodzą głosy. Spieprzaj stąd je*any dawco! Nikt cię tu nie potrzebuje, bo i tak zaraz zginiesz z głupoty! - człowiek na którym chciałeś polegać drwi z ciebie. Dawca, dawca, dawca! - drą się w niebo głosy ludzie.
Mówią, że to niebezpiecznie, to niech oni zostaną w domu. Patrzą na Ciebie wrogim, drwiącym wzrokiem, ukazują na każdym kroku dezaprobatę do tego co robisz? Tak właśnie kończą ludzie bez pasji.
Zimni, bez marzeń. Nie pozwalają robić innym to co tamci kochają.
Bo motocyklista to człowiek z pasją, z marzeniami, który potrafi wyprzedzać je. Jechać o wiele szybciej od nich. Nie uznają słowa nie.
„ Nie potrzebuję żadnych narkotyków. Adrenalina jest moim narkotykiem."
„Nie poddam się i będę walczyć o swoje marzenia, chociażbym miał zginąć za nie."
All Rights Reserved
#17
tajemnice
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