How many twists and turns should we get to have the formula and be aware of what’s on next?
How often do we get our knees scraped to realize that we are doing all our best?
About 5 years ago today, around 2 AM that was, or 3ish maybe? I lost track. I was looking straight at a vast, dry, powdery and empty parcel of land in front of our 4-storey flat and somehow, staring blankly in a seemingly endless dots of light. I lit up another cigar and there I was, questioning the sky, where will I be in 4, 6 years, or 10 probably?
What should I do, where do I go?
Will I be taking in the same air of fatigue and disgust, the same taste of fears, regrets, hopes and dreams that I got? No one knows. Will this end here? Will I ever recover? Will I ever stop asking?
I inhaled that menthol flavoured smoke. I breathed out. Sighed but not relieved.
I think I was lost.
Tonight, I am sitting by a foggy window, people-watching but, this time — in a busy street across the old train station where tens of thousands of commuters taps in and out. I am in an undoubtedly one of the best cities in the world.
Believe me, I don’t have the answers to those questions I muttered years ago.
