Just two girls trying to pack up their home, waiting for their lives to start... But doing it with a smile every step of the way!
And here we are, with a whole life in plastic bags.
I'm a hoarder of moments, desperate to find gold in paper, Something that I had missed before, like an echoing smile. I walk in my loving, sweet Danse Macabre, My fruitless attempt to make "treasure" worthwhile.
Chiquitita, you and I cry, But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you.
Why do we have this self-imposed idea that throughout our lives we are meant to maintain a perfect, crisp version of ourselves? Like untouched snow, or fresh school shoes that we don't want to scratch.
I would like a conversation, where we talk about life and living and what it all means. Maybe after, my brain will turn into liquid and drip into dreams.
How could I still be listening out, just in case Mum needed me?