Fitzgerald once said that you can never know exactly how much space you occupy in someones life. And he was right. You can only guess once in a while, but it's all just a stab in the dark.
At times, I feel discouraged by this neverending uncertainty. I want to believe that disorder is my lover but at times I grow so tired of it.
I'm 25. I am at the age where life should have unraveled its meaning already yet I wander around the continent, confused and misguided. An insect that lost its head and yet continues to live without any direction.
Sometimes, I get angry at myself for allowing disappointment to seep discreetly into my heart. I know that I am to blame for these emotional crashes. But it is so hard to come to terms with the world regarding the way you give your affection. I live the lives I read about in books. I move, I laugh, I breathe in deep and smile. At times I have no sense of what is real and what is not.
I sleep less and less because i want my eyes to encompass so much more than dreams. I want to devour all this passing beauty that surrounds me and I want it to nourish this soul that hungers desperately for shreds of love. I wonder sometimes if love truly can shine over affection. But who knows what love is anymore? After a thousand battles, one only sees death.
Here I am in the heart of England, my mind flying, on a plane to Berlin.
I have an apartment to shelter me from the violent summer sun. A house to warm me when the mountain breathes out the winter snow. But it/s nothing.
I am lost. I have been walking for years. Each time I stop I'm swallowed by nostalgia and regret. There must be a refuge somewhere. Somewhere warm and...I don't even know.
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