The love of my life is fickle.
With every move, with every turn, time brings me further away from my love, but its sweet image nearer to my heart.
It trickles between my fingers, running away.
A hologram of happiness, desire and pain. A flickering glimpse onto something like inner peace, a delusion pinched from a clouded dream.
There is that tiny space, where I belong.
Only a spec on the map of reality.
In those nights and dawns, spent in the silence of that milky yellowish grey of the sky, my love becomes more vivid than anything around me. Or anything inside me…
I keep imagining that I’m on a space station in orbit, and look down on that filthy place I call home. A wonderful and terrifying place I origin from. Itself equally an enigma, truthfully lied, made up and real, beautiful and ugly.
I am ashamed and proud. Even that contradiction is heartfelt and true to me. Equally me, equally not me…