Postcard
I was in love at 22.
But it was not meant to be.
He lived in an island, spoke a foreign language, worked as an apprentice chef (that is how my taste for fine food was started).
It was not meant to be.
We roamed around Europe for a year, together or through letters.
And when it was clear that it was serious, that it was dead serious, I didn't stop till I had put half world between us.
It was not meant to be.
I wanted to savour countries.
I wanted to cross continents.
I wanted to be beloved for my writing, and to be writing in my own words.
(Isn't that ironical now when I hide myself behind foreign signs and sounds?)
So it was not meant to be.
What I find strange, very strange, is the fact that in two years, maybe three
I managed to muffle and freeze the feelings I held for the father of my children, till they were nothing but faded flowers. And those feelings used to be deep indeed.
But I remember with every colorful detail how shocking, how mindblowing, how unsettling it was to find myself in love at 22
In love with a red-haired guy from an island, who crossed countries to look for me.
Only it was not meant to be.
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