Updated: Dec 19, 2019
Latte.
To feel a part of something
while feeling apart from yourself.
Drifting on the sea of your
disintegrated consciousness,
collecting stranded pieces of stories,
trying to compile yourself
from things which are now stranger and farther from you
than ever.
It's all so beautiful,
it's all so cursed,
it's all you ever, never
wanted.
Updated: Oct 8, 2019
Flat white.
It's a horrible thing to experience.
All the possibilities.
All the roads.
Unable to move,
blinded by the lights,
you feel like you don't have enough time
to stretch your soul
just like a pastry dough.
It's nighttime in London
and you feel displaced
in the worst and the best of times.
It's been nighttime for you for a long time.
And you see a light
And you freak out,
Blinded,
Bonded.
Double espresso.
Stories are not a one way street
and my small hands
need other hands to write
and other minds to read
and other places to grow.
I guess stories can end
where loneliness begins.
I guess it takes guts
To try again every time.
I guess it gets just to tiring
to never stop pretending
you're just here for a limited time
when you know stories go on forever.
It's a way of being immortal.
Who can ever deal with that
on their own?
Drop me a line. Will get back to you after I've had my coffee.
