The night is always the hardest time.
My dog is snoring beside me and I’m wide awake.
Images fill my head. Most of them are streets, nature and places. Not people, just feelings. I miss it so much. The colours. The big sky and clouds. The melancholy it made me feel. Don’t get me wrong, I love my home. It’s just that I’m broken. When you travel and live abroad that’s how it works. You just feel it. You don’t belong anywhere but everywhere. And nowhere is how you felt home before you started.
Friday night I left home like a gipsy. Guess what? I met him. He is loosing more hair, was wearing a stupid jeans and sheep jacket and he still was the most beautiful thing for miles. I behaved. I stayed in my corner. Got an hello. Happy days. Not.
I just feel so empty.