Memories are funny in some ways. They linger on to something, somewhere, always in the back of your mind, choosing to appear when you need it the least. When you need it the most though, they’re just gone for some reason. Pretty weird, huh? I’ve always thought so.

It had been awhile since I last thought about her. You know, really thought about her. Everytime I do the feeling is so overwhelming I end up in some kind of dream world, on the edge of insanity, feeling every touch, smell and outlines of her body. Reminiscing. How could I not. She was the apple of my eye. My shining star. Every cheesy crap you can relate too, she was it. Ever since I left L.A I promised myself to never look back. Never share a glance, a look, a stare with someone in a loving way. Closing my walls in for the sake of being safe. Or maybe even for the sake of just being. I turned to my past, before her, and started living as carelessly as I did before blue eyes came across my path. Sleeping around with girls without kissing, drinking way too much and partying all too many nights in a row. I promised myself to never settle for anything or anyone again. That wasn’t me. It never had been either. I just made a mistake.
Once. 

I wasn’t going to get much sleep this night, I already knew it so I got out of bed and grabbed a t-shirt and put on a pair of sweatpants before making my way out of the room.

I had a great apartment. It was a one bedroom apartment on the sixth floor in the centre of the Village. Leather couches, band posters with black frames, a big screen TV, a huge sound system with an equally large CD-collection, guitars hanging from the walls and a deep red backdrop in the living room – it literally screamed my name all over the place. Seeing that I inherited an enormous sum of money (that would at least last for a lifetime if not more) when the rock icon a.k.a. my father passed away I took the opportunity to buy this charming apartment and spent an equal amount on the interior of it.