I’m 13. It’s summer. It’s the summer we didn’t go to Turkey on holidays.
It’s the first long summer alone. No friends. Nor any pretense of any love around.
I’ve been spending weeks wondering the streets. Walking around.
Occasionally going to the library to get lost in books.
But the emptiness closes in.
Somewhere deep inside there’s a vibrating need for adrenaline. The need to be noticed. the need to have concern. The ultimate need to feel loved.
Maybe it are the books I’m reading. But i want to escape.
Escape from myself. Escape from everything surrounding me.
A plan boils up to make a run for it. To evaporate into thin air. Or maybe just to find happiness.
And that brings out the memory of those Easter holidays at the seaside with my brothers and mother. The happy days that once were in my grandmothers house. Those long hours walking on the beach and in the dunes. The wind in my hair. The salty smell in my nose. The itching sand in my socks.
It’s there that I want to return.
Too find what is lost. To embrace those cherished memories.
But i fail.
Once again I’m dragged back into the obvious. There’s nothing out there for me. Or that’s at least what they tell me when they drag me from the train and send me back to that place that should be a home. But it isn’t. And it will never be that.
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