MUSZĘ WAS PRZEPROSIĆ

Sometimes growing up isn't about wisdom, but about chronic sleep deprivation and the sudden realization that pain can become a habit. Everything seems to be let go, but at nite you still take apart your "thens" and "whys" piece by piece. In memory are calls that are no more, and people you can no longer call. It's gotten a little calmer, but not easier. Just be quiet. There's something touching about that: admitting mistakes you can't fix, and still saying "I'm sorry" - even if the listener is only in your head. Between regret and relief, a strange tenderness is born, like after a storm - wet, tired, but real.