My dear mistakemaker

Then again, everything is a journey, sweetheart (sourheart, bitterheart, poignantheart, choose any). Your skillful swimming in the irritating dark winter mud – be it literal melting snow with dirt or your melting soul, discovering dirt underneath. Your mesmerizing falling down, my dear mistakemaker. Isn’t it beautiful to see us fall? Take a photo of it, make the journey eternal. 

Our path is full of spices. Bring some adjika to the front when the world gets too full of cinnamon. Love through tabasco, soothen it with some sumac and peppermint. Yerba mate is pulling your hair: get out of bed! Upcoming spring is getting nowhere without you. 

Pat this old city on its brown shoulders. I know it got empty. If out of you both one has faked its anabiosis, the other one has to wake up. I know it doesn’t sound like it at all now, but don’t you think it could have been the only way to teach you? Disagree, blame it on the cold February wind, continue acting like a lonely warrior, fight the shadows. Realise it has always been you who kept going. 

Words you are definitely going to regret are a part of the journey as well. Master of useless feats noone is going to learn about, be brave and call someone when you think it’s the right time to. Because one of all the times you gracefully fail is going to be right, after all. You’ll nail it – once that very moment you’ll think you’re inevitably falling might be the moment she’ll be on her way to pick up your call.