Insomnia

A wealth of nostalgia

And you keep feeling that dark, vicious, deep void inside you.

A void, that contrary to what people say, only becomes bigger and bigger as the time keeps passing by.

When you see them in the blue waters of the sea, in the air that smells of salt and sweat. In the mood of a summer night. In the frozen air of a winter morning, in the smell of overused clothes.

Reminding you of all the craved opportunities your very own self deprived you from.

Wishing on a Tuesday night that maybe, just maybe, one day you'll randomly run into them.

Clinging on a thin rope of hope that you will vaguely remember what your time bonding felt like.

And so you smell them in the intense, intoxicating cologne, forcing you to gasp for air. Barely satisfying your desperate needs in the most- according to you- pathetic kind of ways. The needs to feel that kind of attention, that kind of touch once again.

Because it's been taken from you only too early, and you won't have it by anyone but the very same person them self.

And you resort to things unhealthy for you in all matters, things you never pictured your self doing.

Always overreacting. Always falling to the lowest of levels even if it's solely for you to know.

And the greatest things you've experienced are all storaged in your mind, like a favourite cd filled with beloved songs, replaying again and again.

And all of those placebo-like intense moments will never cease to be held in your mind- no matter how possible-, for you will always stick to those precious moments, ignoring the real life speculations.

And those crazy fantasies will forever stay there, hidden in the small mind of a small human who yet makes them so big. Almost big enough to fill the void.

But our imagination belongs to us to use, and we can use it for as long as we please.

For in the end, our imagination is the only thing that's real.