You read and write and sing and experience, thinking that one day these things will build the character you admire to live as. You love and lose and bleed best you can, to the extreme, hoping that one day the world will read you like the poem you want to be.
I haven’t been very impressed lately.
By people,
or places,
or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind.
Let me wake up next to you, have coffee in the morning and wander through the city with your hand in mine, and I’ll be happy for the rest of my fucked up little life.
There’s something about arriving in new cities, wandering empty streets with no destination. I will never lose the love for the arriving, but I’m born to leave.
Spend more time doing things that make you forget about the time.
I have lost and loved and won and cried myself to the person I am today.
I never have time to write anymore. And when I do I only write about how I never have time. It’s work and it’s money and I’ve written more lists than songs lately. I stay up all night to do all these things I need to do, be all these things I want to be, playing with shadows in the darkness that shouldn’t be able to exist. Empty bottles and cigarettes while watching the sunrise, why do I complain? I have it all, everything I ever asked for.