Things we lost in the fire


Haz clic aquí para la versión en castellano

I used to write, you know?
About everything.

I used to sit down in front of this and just let myself go.
And I wasn’t going anywhere.
And I was going everywhere.

It is like riding a bike, they said, because apparently everything is like riding a fucking bike (I also used to swear), and I never liked sports!
I made up excuses to skip Physical Education, if that’s even its name. Someone told me that if you ran with your eyes closed you’d be done with the 800m in no time, and I could’ve killed myself when I crashed my head full speed against that sneaky metal post!
I guess I didn’t see it coming.

I guess I never saw any of this coming, but that’s life, isn’t it?

My head still hurts, but I don’t write anymore.

Dreams, you know; one day you have them and you say you’re never abandoning them and the day after you realise that sleeping is already good enough. It’s not that easy. It is like riding a bike but you never learnt.

And when sleeping is already good enough, what happens to your dreams?

I used to write.

Bastille – Things we lost in the fire

But I love to read the words you used.

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