i want to go back home
You’re a work of art, methodically accumulating different tastes, smells and sounds.
Look at us, my dear,
we’re about to change the world,
the tables are turning,
you’re time’s up, boy.
You’re alive. You’re loved. You’re here.
On some days, I sleep with it, poured into the marrow of my bones. It’s no longer tricked into sleeping under my bed, it keeps climbing, till it’s one with the voices in my head.
But there are some people who paint their skin with courage and desires. Who walk with legs like swords cutting through the human limitations of time and distance. They are the Digital Nomads!
The shame for you in other people’s eyes slowing crawls its way into the deepest corners of your chest, and stays.
I’m searching for things, which might not make sense, but which make me feel something, whether beautiful or destructive.
Female friendships are definitely demanding, downright exhausting, require emotional nurturing and explanations for things done and things not done, involve venting and ranting sessions, and “what the hell are you doing?” reprimanding sessions.
If I ever have a daughter,
I’d tell her,
Don’t do what your mother says,
For mothers aren’t always right