Nog voordat ik de eerste zin van dit stukje type, voel ik me al een opa. Niet door m’n stramme heupen, m’n slechte gehoor of het feit dat ik de hele dag achter de planten me zit af te vragen wanneer er weer eens iemand langskomt, maar meer omdat ik zo hopeloos ouderwets ben.
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Find me.
Whoever or whatever you are, whether you’re art or sex or drugs or money or success or God or whatever the bloody hell you are, whatever is supposed to make me make sense of myself, whatever it is that holds all this whole stupid bloody beautiful world together, whatever it is in all this mess that keeps some tiny shred of grace in the footsteps of those who walk around with something missing… just find me, already.
Because we made a deal, and that’s your part of the bargain. My part of it, right now, as I stand right here, is to live through this, to be more than this, to become better than this. And I will, I promise you I will. But you have to find me, or show me how I can finally find you. That’s the deal.
Find me, now, soon. Please.
Geschreven door Noah Grey.
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