First cross these waters and soar over towering mountains; then serenade your sweetheart with a snow white guitar. We have these grand ideas carefully stored in a bottle of our minds, all ready to be tossed into sea in anticipated glory – it is a wonder how something so simple can always be just out of reach, taunting you mercilessly in ways that perhaps only certain fruit-loving, four-legged creatures understand best.
Drunk with emotion, we become poetry in motion. We live in fairy tales of our own making, of stardust and nightmares for the taking. Our precious moments in the sun may be clouded by the occasional rain or two, but in the end all I really want is to be with you.
There goes another month – one of hardly any merry-making or soul-searching. I must have missed the memo, but why does going through the motions have to be this tiring? It seems like a bloody hangover that none of us can ever properly get out of: you go to the after-party without a glass of bubbly in hand, and still wake up with a pounding headache on the wrong side of the bed.
This is all your fault, and you know it. One day I shall write and spill the beans – all and whatever is left of it – and we will be none the wiser.