Golden days

Memories – Chapter Two.

Missing the old golden days.

He was back to his childhood home.

Flipping old photos

Feeling the edge of the cold.

The smell of aged wood,

welcoming son retour.

Drifting through memories

craving the liberty,

missing the taste of those delicacies.

That life. That era.

Free of burdens. Loosed from the coffin.

If I could go back. Taste the lemonade of my memories. (Si je pouvais revenir. Goûter la citronnade de mes souvenirs.)

Ridiculous.

He was startled,

looking around,

noticing the sound.

Who’s there? (Qui est là ?)

Pathetic. Playing the victim.

Beautiful. Romantic.

Who are you? Who is there? Your familiarity seems close (Qui es-tu ? Qui est là ? Ta familiarité semble étroite.)

Unimportant.

Besides the citronnade of your souvenirs,

what do you miss about your prime soupir?

I don’t know…(Je ne sais pas…)

That purity (Cette pureté.)

That joy (Cette joie)

Swallowing the discoveries. (d’avaler les découvertes.)

The naivety that excuses you. (La naïveté qui t’excuse.)

Your naïvty is still here. Blinding your view.

Very poetic. Try again. Little lunatic.

I miss the beginning. The joys of those first encounters. (Le début me manque.) Les joies des premières rencontres.)

Pretty line. With your fancy French feather.

Try hard. Unleash the dark.

FREEDOM, for God’s sake. I’m tired of this life. Sick of carrying my demons through the rush.

Naïve. Stupid. You have to wonder how those demons manifest upon your surrender?

Yes I know… (Oui. Je sais…)

Say it.

I never chose the people around me or where I live. (Je n’ai jamais choisi ni mon entourage ni où je vis.)
Complaining serves no purpose. But the demons are very much there. (Me plaindre ne sert à rien. Mais les démons sont bien là.)
I fight against their hold every day. (Je me bats chaque jour contre leur emprise.)
It’s just… unfair… (C’est juste… injuste…)

*Nice speech. Can’t help but applauMost of your demons were born amid that golden time of yours.
The privilege of choosing is a lost cause in your grief.*

I will leave you to your melancholy, enjoying its holding grip.

Shaken.

Cramping.

He rushed through

The storm of thoughts in his mind. (Le tourbillon de son esprit)

Running from the raspy voice,

That sounded dreadfully

like

His own.