how many fantasies in an infinitesimal space?
Is it because I keep waiting for life that I write?
I browse the web, hoping the answer is somewhere
so a week later..
Everytime the same conclusion,
Every Saturday the same restlessness in the pit of my stomach,
causing me to sort through playlist unable to find the right song,
going back and forth to the bookshelf, unable to decide which book to read,
and, frankly, incapable of anything at all.
I browse the web, hoping the answer is somewhere
on my timeline, in my mentions, in my inbox.
Only to be reminded that I must make my own story instead of waiting around.
For what? for whom?
Always these questions and never a satisfying answer.
so a week later..
new songs, new books, new websites, and yet..
I accomplish nothing except a few new freckles as I sit resignated on the balcony,
leaning against the yellow, sunbathed wall, thinking "if not you, then who else?".
Everytime the same conclusion,
but for how will writing it be enough?
Kommentarer
Trackback
