All is left is your good old believe in better times.
„Wild Child“ tattood on your back.
The tree of life, there it goes. With or without you. Life doesn’t give a shit about hurt. It’s the most common feeling ever.
You were a child of joy. Nothing seemed to throw you back.
There you walk up the stairs of a house you never wanted to be.
Which isn’t yours at all.
You start to wonder where you belong.
You start forget where you come from.
When you had wine-nights at beaches. Night swims in the ocean. Drunken nights out with strangers who didn’t gave a shit, but drinks for free. Best nights where the awake-ones-danced-throughs. You’re still young, but you start losing confidence in life.
So many have gone.
Won’t come back.
You went so, so god damn sick at looking for „new“ friends with the time that you feel stone-old. Which you are not. Obviously.
These times you forget to simle.
Forget to hope.
Forget the good.
An ocean of it’s gone opens inside you.
Then you open another bottle. Forget. The. Now. Please.
To wake up again to see what has always been there: it has to go on. Because it will.