There is no present for romantics. Our lives flows subconsciously into meticulously constructed past lives.
In places where our words were meaningful. In places where we moved through walls or where there were no walls at all.
Romantics live in cars that soar the night sky.
Our souls sleep in sailboats, rocked to sleep by loneliness and liquor. And in the middle of all the despair and confusion, sometimes we laugh, sometimes we smile. All with careless honesty.
Despite a world that cheats us at every step, we hope against hope. And we respond to this unkindness, not with forgiveness, but with forgetfulness. And its the most hurtful thing you can do to them
Sometimes, we hold our breath. Our words. Our very selves, within us.
We walk on distant shores and our dreams hide in the seashells on which we tread so patiently.
I dream of home nowadays. My memories drag me out of the house. They shove me in buses and send me at to the edges of this island.
The Atlantic roars as it bites and chews the cliffs. I watch its cold mouth foaming and I smile. It truly is a grand thing to witness. But it is not my sea. That warm and welcoming tongue of water that gently licked my skin for years.
There are days in which I feel my heart being constricted by a strangers fist. And I drink and I smoke and somehow, the grip loosens.
There are days in which our bodies look like the crumbling faces of buildings in the old harbour. And there is nothing we can do about them.
Days...nights...and then more days.
We`re barely allowed to live at all nowadays. And all this Life unravels in those short hours between work and sleep.
Between our breaths and our memories.
