I will have this unrelenting urge to smoke a cigarette, to climb a tree, to smash rocks at walls and into the sea.
To hate myself, to hate my country, to let go.
To make peace with it, violently, sickeningly, recklessly.
To drink the last dregs of wine.
But now, for now I just have the urge to lie down for days, searching through photos, throwing them away.
Searching for new beginnings in books before putting them down half way through.
To think about everyday as winter, and not as summer
To think wonderfully about the future. To think of skylines, birds soaring, waves smashing against cliffs, the sea.