Houses out of humans.
I was always drawn towards the impossible: The idea of love in a hopeless place, morality in sensuality, materialism of emotional stability, sense of belonging in a wrecked house made out of a human; it was always extreme. I refused to settle for mediocrity. I romantisized love affairs that would set the bed up in flames and killed every inch of me that was humane. Even the slightest thought of a mundane existence stirred me up like a tornado. Destruction could never co exist with survival and my way of living was everything but nonchalant. My only evolution was a stronger back quite used to carry a huge sack of non existent love affairs with people I haven't met yet of course and patience that lasted longer than the nights with the men I could never fall in love with. It is one hell of a task to be your true self. It's so much easier to be someone else or no one at all. Sometimes when I'd have choices, I'd withdraw into my own nothingness or curl in my couch of stardom. I was one of those fools that craved for a love they didn't deserve and dodged away what could have been real. I wasn't steering anything, not even myself. The people I loved weren't the prison. I was.