i’ve never felt more comfortable in the places where i grew up. i guess it’s not about the buildings nor the trees or the streets. it’s not about the playgrounds of my childhood or the bars of my teenage years. it’s not about the kitchen where i still have coffee with my best friend and talk about what would seem nonsense a few years later
it’s not about the white dog that has been living in front of my building for more than ten years, that still barks at strangers. it isn’t the fence where i first crashed my bike. it’s not my grandparents house where i grew up nor my grandmother’s garden that in the summertime hosts an orgy of flowers. it’s not my highschool from which i can only remember the cigarette breaks and the coffee, oh thank god for the coffee that made the 7a.m. bearable
it may not be my room, my bed or my mom’s yellow car. cause i thought myself how to run and i got the fuck out of there the first chance i got
i found my happy place…and it’s weird and cozy, i filled it up with tea and it let’s me sleep naked. and it gets me furious at times cause it has secrets that haunt my mind. it cannot be healthy. it’s just like a song you play over and over again cause it just sounds so perfect until it loses all significance. or maybe it’s like one of those songs that never dies and people still play it at parties…
who cares? i know he’s the one cause he buys me green nail polish






