Somewhere between an old radio song, a cold vanilla latte, and emotional unemployment, I wrote (blows raspberries ) THIS?! *insert debating one’s own sanity [poet really only means the curtains are blue] You know those people who leave so quietly that even silence starts sounding like them after a point? Excruciating enough that some nights, memory shows up disguised as curiosity and suddenly I’m three hours deep into old interviews, random Reddit ravel (wtf is even that?!) , blurry photographs, and strangers loving/hating someone like they discovered them first. And somehow, against all logic, one might still end up offended… as if the world was supposed to know that your silence around them was sacred. When they sometimes wanna make you drag out of the perfectly made (very very comfortable) cocoon then climb on top of that rooftop yell (softly though) for them to bloody get out of their head, how they’ve stretched out the liberty by far more...
Poetry, rants, coffee, slow afternoons, sometimes art and, everything in between.