Queen of some age

368 days ago, I woke up and bought tickets to 3 different countries. Little did I know that would not be the most exciting part of my year. A year that would take another one to go through the basics of it, nonetheless every little heart-quake that came with it.

I promised myself I'll start writing again. No long ago, I could define myself as a writer. Seconds later, years for you, there are no lines written, no words spoken, not even loud music to cover the voices. Maybe this year.

But my story is not about this year. It's about the last one.

I haven't learnt much, just how to look for the bright side in everything, so I don't fucking crumble under all and never make it out of bed. Building others up, hoping they won't know that beyond empathy, I bring experience. Skinny like 20, with a dislocated mind that rarely separated the day from night and glasses of wine I stopped counting at a certain point.

Have you ever felt the physical pain of your self breaking down into little pieces, your lungs collapsing, your stomach refusing to act like an organ, your liver alive for 20 h out of 4, your mind becoming a lump of pain and guilt, hugging itself until you can't see the lines no more, all whilst smiling at table 30?


Still, it was one of my best years.

                                                                                                              Thank you, January.