So now it’s this thing I do.
I go away, ever so often, by myself, for myself,
to new places with foreign streets I haven’t walked yet,
and there I wander, up and down, watching people going places I don’t know
and it always hits me that they’re never alone,
always with someone,
and I wonder how they would spend a day all on their own in a foreign city with nothing to do and no one to see,
and I wonder if they’d be happy.
Just simply being free,
like I am trying to be.
Happy.
Just simply being me.

I will never lose the love for the arriving, but I'm born to leave.

Let me wake up next to you, have coffee in the morning and wander through the city with your hand in mine, and I'll be happy for the rest of my fucked up little life.

It’s the beating of my heart.
The way I lie awake, playing with shadows slowly climbing up my wall. The gentle moonlight slipping through my window and the sound of a lonely car somewhere far away, where I long to be too, I think. It’s the way I thought my restless wandering was over, that I’d found whatever I thought I had found, or wanted, or needed, and I started to collect my belongings. Build a home. Safe behind the comfort of these four walls and a closed door.
Because as much as I tried or pretended or imagined myself as a part of all the people out there,
I was still the one locking the door every night.
Turning off the phone and blowing out the candles so no one knew I was home.
’cause I was never really well around the expectations of my personality
and I wanted to keep to myself.
and because I haven’t been very impressed lately.
By people,
or places.
Or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind.

I have found no other cure for loneliness than to befriend it.

There’s something about arriving in new cities, wandering empty streets with no destination. I will never lose the love for the arriving, but I'm born to leave.