There were words without any stories; words only filled with wine, soulful music and soul-less moments that seemed to be even more so in the winter without the presence of those non-existent people who were yet so important.
All the possible stories seemed so far from what life was turning out to be – honest in its brutality, vague in its beauty, wonderfully familiar. I wanted to describe a world of truth, pain, anger, intimacy, fear, insecurity and all the existing human emotions, but somehow non of those experiences were there. Life was a blank canvas, unshakable, protected from colors, hanging on an empty wall, in a quiet room, in a building in a deserted island, in space.
I didn’t know if I wanted to stay far away, or come back to a world, where I felt far from myself. I was floating in between, incapable of choosing a reality, still chasing those words that didn’t want to come out as beautifully as they did in my thoughts. I sipped in more wine, with the image of January, drinking with him, creating a story that wouldn’t have to mean anything as long as it was real.
I have seen this life before. I have loved this man before. My soul is left behind, capturing every moment of desire. I am coming back, soul-less, without a story to tell.