the days are still cold. every once in a while I open the file with letters and read them through. but there’s that one that I have been returning to a little too often recently. I am not even sure why. it contributes to nothing.
I’m giving in to the seventies all over again. the doors, nico, the velvet underground. the factory people. I am retracing my own steps because this is what has made me the way I am. and of course, the post-punk of the eighties. each decade in the past ninety years is somehow relevant to me. the culture of each has shaped me up. but now, thanks to patti smith I am stuck in the underground world of the seventies. new york city, new wave. but we all know the story. the way it was and how it ended.
I enjoy cooking now; the entire process including grocery shopping. last night spaghetti al pomodoro topped with black olives with a bottle of white wine. tonight I prepared my family’s version of moussaka. it’s a dish that spreads throughout the mediterranean, the balkan and arabian peninsula. each country, each family has its own version. mine is inspired by my grandmother in banja luka; prepared with beef and baked potatoes. sometimes the simplest things can mean a lot. tonight the apartment smelled like home.
I’m in a desperate search of inner balance and peace. but ever since you left; it has gotten easier. which is strange. but maybe that’s how you can know people are worth it; maybe that’s how you find that someone special. when they inspire you so much, you can keep going without them.