The truth is that I haven’t ever really found a place that I call home: I never stick around quite long enough to make it. I apologise that once again, I’m not in love, although I seem to enjoy making me believe that I am; anyway it’s not as if I mind that anyone’s heart is not exactly breaking. It’s just a thought, only a thought.
And if my life is for rent and I don’t learn to buy, well, I guess I deserve nothing more than I get, because nothing I have is truly mine. In fact I haven’t learned anything new about life for ages: I only really learned how to survive, not how to live, and that’s not life.
I’ve always thought that I would love to live by the sea, to travel the world alone and live more simply. I have no idea what’s happened to that dream because there’s really nothing left anywhere to stop me. Again: it’s just a thought, only a thought.
And if my life is for rent and I don’t learn to buy, then I must recognise that I deserve nothing more than I get because, as I have said, according to that premise nothing I have is truly mine.
While my heart is a shield and I won’t let it down (I’ve already broken it on the couple of occasions I tried to remove the shield, so it has developed a thicker shield by itself) and while I am so afraid to fail so I won’t even try again, well, how can I say I’m alive?
There: the old song again.
Calítoe est un microbe vierge. Elle est morte. Vive Calítoe.:.
Needless to say that all these ramblings are based on Dido’s lyrics, Tristan Tzara’s Dada manifest and my perfect crappy life.