Naomi

I don't understand how such a mystic soul, walks the world with a melancholic tone. Someone who once lived through the screen of her phone, and now is rarely home. Off exploring the world and its beauty, and recognizing sorrow truly. Nights that involved confessions and burning cigarettes, become conversations I wont ever forget. As the 60's play from car speakers, she tells me "Im getting weaker."

"Weaker as I stay in this city", she hushes me and says, "No, I don't need your sympathy, or pity. All I want to do is run from this hell, because hun, I have no soul to sell. The world is so big and bright, I want to see all the sights. From the London lights, to Paris nights. California sunsets, to fancy New York apartments. My life is out there in this world, and its waiting like an open door. I want to, I have to know."

Allured by her sense of wonder, I ask her to show me the world through her eyes, to teach me how to paint a page with words, as the colors come out like birds, spilling freely to create a story, about those late nights that get lonely.

I always wondered.

How could such a mystic soul, walk the world with a melancholic tone.