Everywhere mountains. Appearing through the mist, carrying sunrises, sunsets, snow flurries, respite. My parents ask me what I am doing with my life and I have nothing but question marks to return, nothing but obstacles to paint. Mountains.
I do not land, this time, I merely repack. Wash clothes, wash mind. Tomorrow another flight, another journey. I relish the feeling. I am haunted by the knowledge that I cannot keep this up.
It all looks so pretty on paper. You wish paper was living your life, instead.
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Sifting through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way.
About Me
- Cajsa
- "If I can go to New York, live madly, and write. I will want for Nothing."
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