Once my means to survive, writing seems to be slipping from me. Mostly because I do therapy on Messenger, fill voids with Instagram posts meant to make me feel better about my day and text all day instead of having a coffee.
I dare to say that my writing will suck until it won't. Let's all hope that. Kind of like hoping to win the lottery without ever buying a ticket.
I remember when we promised each other to see Barcelona. Together. And we did. It was a warm March, with the sun shining on my not-so-natural-redhead-color and smiles everywhere and whatever people say about their holidays and kids write in their 4th-grade essays about seasons.
Tried to discover Zafon's Barcelona, gave up after the first hour. My imagination is better. Ate decent food, saw the sea for the second time in that year and tried to be happy. Smile, actually, because people really confuse those two, which makes my life easier.
On the roof, there was a bottle of wine. And 2 girls. And a pack of cigarettes. Somehow, that numbed the pain for a couple of hours.
There was an entire city burning under my feet and here I was: wine in one hand, one in the other.
March gave me the kick I needed to get the fuck out and do something, anything. As long as it makes me feel.
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