Sunday, 4 December 2016

Being someone.

When we least expect things to happen, they happen.

And then who are we, the same person who we used to be? 

Every cell I was born with is probably dead by now, I am made of things that keep dying, and new ones replace them; and then there are those things inside me, which always had a brain of their own. 

Then I see him and my heartbeat is not mine anymore. 

"but in our story,
who is the monster at the end of the book?
oh my love, the monster is time."
Courtesy: Free
Photograph: Anna