I wish my life had a story-writer who likes melancholy as much as I do.
Who loves the softness of history as much as I do.
Who sees the romance of Paris in the rain as much as I do.
Who understands how soothing It is to go back an era and let the healing light suround you.
Why doesn’t my story-writer understand me? See me? Hear me?
Probably because I’m living my own lie. There is no story-writer and me. We are the same. Why didn’t I see that?
And my longing for the past is my hunger for softness and understanding. It feels safe to live in the past because you know the story-lines. No painfull surprises.
But it’s a thin line of fear and holding back. Sometimes I cross it. Meaning I’m living in the past and doing myself short.
Way short. Life is not scary when you choose to live It. And when you choose to live with the right people around you. The people that know how you would love your story-line as much as you would yourself.
They who see you, who hear you.
The story-writer is me.
I’m choosing life. I’m choosing my people. I have a choise. I live. I breathe. I see. I love. I love me. I love history and I choose to be on the right side of that thin borderline melancholy is.
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