don't lie to me marlon

i have been writing and deleting, writing and deleting hoping i'll find the appropriate words to begin. struck by yet another mood swing, i type these words with the unbearable thought of that i, need to leave soon. 

i am momentary.

what am i supposed to tell you? 

Summer in Kyrenia

I remember last summer, summer of 2016, so vividly that I can probably name every single detail. That it was July, Foals- Birch Tree was playing loudly in my room. That it was August and I had decided to become a fish, a happy fish just because of swimming in late afternoons. Reading The Stranger from Albert Camus at 5am, drowning in the weather he told and killed.

I dreamt of summers as Camus told in The Stranger. Lazy summer nights, watching people from the balcony, swimming with beautiful people, coffee and more. I would prefer a better weather though.

Life is what I give myself, and this summer it's misery. Summer in Kyrenia is dreamy as long as you are spending it swimming, watching sunsets and the moon, sitting in your balcony or garden, eating food that is all about the olive oil. Maybe maybe, maybe that's what I'm doing. I remember looking at the moon.

This is a piece you get from me, one I will not finish as I am slowly falling into my dreamland where there is an actual structure. A beauty in the architecture where Kyrenia Mountains are green and the roads are felt by the dreamer as she runs away. The harbour is glowing at night with all the life. Houses furnished with pieces that scream modernism and the dreamer crashes into glass walls. Getting into a car on a rainy day and promising a day of travel to the driver. Not dreaming again after it, then coming back for more. Yellows and blues.

Maybe I should read another book from Camus.



I like the colours in this.