When we mourn our losses, we mourn ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer.
I don’t worry about fitting in because I’m not sure if I ever had a true moment of being in a place and wanting to be in said place. And then you came along, and then I heard it in your voice: the “wish you were here”. But, will I fit with your friends? Will your streets be as dear to me as they are to you? Will I ever dare to belong somewhere? I don’t even belong to myself.
If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.
Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.
Category: to stop focusing on the effects of “those” days of the month/ groove on because my mojoe is so fucking lost!