Someone once told me that I have a writers soul.
I don’t really know who he was, or if he was enrolled in a dream, but I kinda took it to me. I’ve been told that I love to be melancholy, but also when you feel like the only thing in life is writing - is the time you’ll become the sadest. I can’t forget about this dream, it’s been played over and over in my head - I go to bed with it, and I wake up with it - as a gray wire that follows me in everything I do. I never been good in meeting people and then forget about the meeting.
You already know that you don’t know … and that you’ll never be able to comprehend. Why would you? Why should I?
I don’t know if I’m looking for a reality.
I don’t know if I’m me, without you.
I don’t know if Emma is just a name.
I don’t know
I wonder if you know that once I had my own city, streets of me, my own people, my imaginary language. The past never passes, it just floats - from entering, while we move. I had my own little world and I flirted unconsciously and the beautiful eye is already replaced with another and I can no longer see - what I wanna see, what I know exist.
I follow the star patterns in the sky and talk to the air just as it would be my best friend. So yes, I have a writers soul, and there’s nothing I can do about it - I just need to accept it. To live the easy way - or live with heavy thoughts, I never got the chance to choose.
I’ve always believed in fairy tales.
Fairy tales never change.
They are timeless and you can do
stupid things and still be forgiven
While it doesn’t exist,
there is nothing it can’t do