Woke up at 3 am this morning and stared at the ceiling.
It’s been three days since I got back from my holidays, but my body hasn’t yet learned that the sun does not make an early visit during cold November mornings.
Maybe it’s because my mind is still enacting the sunny stories I lived in.
Still holding on to a moment or a memory.
‘And when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful’
‘History is remembered by its art, not its war machines’
‘The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went.’
‘These are the days that must happen to you’
‘And love isn’t something weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell lot of hope’
‘It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning’