there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

-bukowski

I have this terrible pang of loneliness that never leaves my side. I just want to pack my bags and book a flight and just go. To Europe. To Sweden, Switzerland, Germany, Norway, Denmark, Finland, France, Italy, Greece, to Spain, Ireland, Scotland, England, to everywhere. I want to be able to breathe. The further I get away from here, the better I feel. Last winter, driving West I felt that relief. I only wonder what it would feel like to fly over Paris at night. To be surrounded by lightness. And to step off into freedom. From the past, from all the people that I have let down here, from all the people I feel isolated from, from all the stupid things I have done and said or didn’t say. From all the friends I don’t have. From my insecurity. From my loneliness. From my effort. From my patience. From my broken heart that never really healed. To get drunk, dress up, and not give a FLYING FUCK.

I have so much to be thankful for, so much I’m happy for but there is a void in me that needs filling up. The only way is by living the things I dream.