Twentysomething

Our lives, the act of living, nurture our decay. And from the moment we wake, life bombards us inexplicable questions: what should I do – what should I confront today?

I had a good chat with a friend the other night. She told me that I should write more. Write more, otherwise it'll go away and doesn't come back, she says. Write about anything.

She was still young, her blond locks flirted with her shoulders. But her hands betrayed her.

I took the tram to work today instead of biking. And it was autumn. Walking around slowed me down. The city came into focus and I saw stuff I had forgotten – flower stands and commuters in coats, coffee shops and steam from the sewers, idled cars and the blinking restaurant

It becomes harder to ignore, these thoughts that gather dust in the empty spaces. It's much easier to complain, to want: a higher salary, more travel time, more friends.

My brain is like a piece of glass, shattered into a million drops of light reflected on and on. My whimsy is there, buried in books and words and letters, disconnected from – there, my angst, with poets and dreamers, shuffling among the dark recesses giving (of course) stage to the