When you wake up, you realise you're sleeping in somebody's couch. There's a green cup on the table next to you that is half full from the sunlight that it catches from the open window. In big white letters, the words:

WHAT THE F*CK

HAPPENED

LAST NIGHT?

Then that feeling hits you, and you force yourself back to sleep again: in slumber you have one last defence against facing yesterday's memories, drinking and decisions.

It won't last long but at this point you can't be picky.

(Stolen from Oriane, teacher, host and friend)

Some day, I'll open up my heart, show my hand and let everybody know about you.

Some day, I'll write about how much you changed me - when you asked me never to change.

How much you made me want to stay - when you told me to go.

How you were the worst thing that could have happened to me at the worst possible time - because you were the best thing that ever happened to me.

Some day, I'll thank you for showing me how to be myself, and, more importantly, how to forgive myself for what I am.

One day, I'll write all this and publish it so that all the world can know.

Wait, no. I'll take that back. I don't think I'd be comfortable with that.

"And you feel, like, when you're furthest away from everything is when you're most connected." - Anissa Jkhan.

Some of the wisest minds are hidden in twelve-year olds' bodies.

Caspar David Friedriech, Wanderer above the sea of fog

From A Softer World

But you won't let me.

Buttercup Festival