nostalgia

as i flipped through the plastic pages of my old polaroid album, nostalgia pushed through my veins. i found the remnants of a time of travelling alone and pink sunsets.

images of a time captured in endless short nights and running away from authorities to catch the train on a rush. broken shards of glass upon a window frame tainted my idea of a secret teenage escapade, one that i'd possibly never have witnessed here. and the countless midnights that instantly turned into abstract color bathed dawns only went by because of the two jesters, one who was always beside me and the other, who was 6,611 kilometres away, but still felt like the three of us were constantly in a room together, greatly enjoying each other's pleasant company.

after that treacherous august, my journey into the vivid city of plains and skyscrapers torched my existential angst of love, for one has truly not seen love until they find their true reality.

and what does it all mean? i do not think i will ever come across a true answer, but i think it is all essential to the daring dread and anguish of living, a proper entrance into a state of understanding morality and its taxes.