To lie on the cold floor and hear how a flatmate comes home after work, opens the door with a key.
To watch the picture made of cracks on the ceiling.
I tell the phrase time and again as mantra: “to aspire to reach your goal”. And I’m afraid that suddenly one morning, while brushing my teeth, I will face the question if the right goal has been chosen.
To make up reasons for not going to classmates’ weddings.
To avoid questions like “what are you working at now”.
To hate another “normal” job.
Dear 12-year-old me from a photo album, everything goes not as planned and wished.
Nobody from our class has become a doctor, once admired idols struggle with dyspnea after every pas;
leaving, the boy, who recited Blok’s poems for you, took away a coffee mill and the last hope for everything to be like in the movies; the apple tree in the school garden was cut down last spring.
And after all that the sky did not fall to the earth, there was no earthquake and I, personally, wasn’t killed by divine fire.
Nothing of that kind has happened.
Everybody said OK.
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