Pale September

Love, does not happen after thirty. What happens then is merely familiarity and comfort, a cosy feeling of acquaintance, a false sense of intimacy and affection that serves to stave off the void for a little longer.



When it comes to relationship. I'm always on my way out, ready to jump. Bag slung over shoulder, moving on, ticket in hand, a flight, a boat, a train. It's a solo occupation. I just lived with it until it became part of my soul, and every night was just jumping again and again, senseless, exalted, perfect. I don't know if I can give it up.



I'm sitting in my room, contemplating on life, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes, at peace with what I know, what I have learned: that real life is always inadequate until the retelling of it makes it glorious, victorious, tragic and beautiful.



I wonder why life is never enough for me.