I was just told to write. So here I am, trying to make some coherence out of the songs that are spreading through my brain. Can I even make sense of the things inside me? I gave up on the outside long time ago, but maybe I can still make a mess of it. Gods know I’m not comfortable when nothing is lying around.

There are no lights here. I can hear rain outside but, did it even stop raining? I have the vague sensation that the lamp in the street looks at me when I sleep. It’s always there. When I wake up, it’s always gone but, well, the Sun. Who can compete with that, streetlamp?

I think that was a Freudian slip.

This came so suddenly. This emptiness. It is always there, I know, I already learnt that. But lately it… went on vacation? Who knows. It likes the cold, maybe that’s why it’s back. My feet are cold now.

“The stars only twinkle when the sky is dark.” Such a dumb quote in a dumb notebook that, because of her, I keep with infinite love. Space. The last frontier. The last frontier I’d like to explore is not the space filled with stars, but the space between your arms. Those who can hold me when everything is breaking down. They said they understood the lights, but do you even need to? I just want to lay under them.

And there are suddenly so many arms. I’ve lost the count of all the faces I wanna touch, all the eyes I wanna stare like if they were endless voids. All the voices I like to listen around me. And, sometimes, I feel like some of them I could use without. And I’m scared.

But I’m always scared.

And I hide behind descriptions and stings, behind smiles and soft hands, behind the chocolates and feelings I give, give, until there’s nothing left for me. Because is the emptiness, old friend of mine, that somehow, keeps me going.

No, it doesn’t.

It just makes me write. Play. Sing.

And maybe that’s why I like Keaton so much. He can put on chords what I feel, what I cannot feel. He can say “hey, I love you. I love the idea that leaving you will write thousands of songs and caress me a hundred nights. Because I’m nothing but the memories that we used to be, the memories I firmly say I will never try to recreate but I still daydream.”

He can sing that.

I can only dream, and write.

And this isn’t a peace offering. This isn’t about me, in the end. There are so many things you believe, so many things you think you see in me. But that’s the catch. If you could only see what it is inside, you would never unsee me. Maybe that scares me. Everything scares me, in the end.

But not this emptiness.

It has always been here. It will always be.

And somehow, it’s comforting. Somehow, I managed to make that void inside me my main support. And I can smile a hundred times and laugh a thousand days but it will always be there.

But that’s ok.

I think I’m ok.

We are ok.

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