Saturday, 21 September 2013

The trouble of being a gypsy


The troubles of being a gypsy don't come with the travels. They arise when you go back to things. Places. People. You go back, often with memories - green - expectant that you will be met with the laughter, the joy, the solitude that you found so dear once. You approach with weary, hesitant steps. Only to find old walls and dried branches of what once used to be the evergreen shades of comforting friendships and everything home. But that's natural. People move on. Things decay. Friendships run out of conversations. The trouble starts when you begin enjoying this decay, this passing of things. This going back to ruins of what you loved. Goddamn it, you love it so much that it doesn't hurt anymore. It would, if it wasn't this way.

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