A friend once told me: "I don't know what happens to us that the things we want are the things that tear us down. I think it's the way things are made out to be, and not our fault or the fact that we're desillusional." She looked up, at the sky, paused for a moment … Continue reading Fighting II
I wake up, not having known I had blacked out. The room is light grey, even though there’s barely any light coming in. I am lying on the soft floor, my head spins ever so slightly and I wonder where I am. There’s no one here. I can’t see anything but walls and something that … Continue reading default_5
I am tired of fighting; I am tired of fighting my own personality, my dreams, my illusions. I just want to be who I am, is that too much to ask for? Is it to bold? Is it so unreachable? I am tired of fighting a battle I can't win; with weapons I don't have, … Continue reading Fighting
The eyes, it is said, are the windows to the soul - and his were grey in grey with a flamboyent, ochre of Elba, ring - just like a dancing leaf in a late November rain, shortly before it starts to snow. It was cold and warm and persistent and vanishing, falling and flying, crying … Continue reading November Rain
