Rise and fall.
Every word is like a thorn,
wounding and tearing me apart.
Like a knife scraping against skin.
The past, left in memory,
leaves my wounds bleeding.

I was lost in dreams of the future.
Now, everything is mixed up with the past,
and the colours of nostalgia warm my heart.
The regrets that come with them
feel almost justified.

I am neither Sartre nor Proust,
but I carry a part of Camus within me -
a strength that gets me through the tough times.
It gives me the will to change my fate.
And if we must give up hope,
For me, hope goes hand in hand with faith.