emlin

Things You Buried Without Me || Emlin

She had been away a week. A week of not talking, not being there, a week of avoiding the person she cared most about. She knew the detrimental factor she was doing, or actually – she didn’t. She didn’t have a god damn clue what she was doing to her person. Clutching her small duffle bag, she walked up her eleven flights of stairs to her apartment and pressed her hand to her forehead, the pain making her wince on contact. The deal didn’t go as expected last night, or it did but the after math wasn’t what she had agreed to. Taking out her phone, she reread through all the missed calls and texts Devlin had sent through out the week, he was probably off the fucking walls but what could she expect? This was her fault and she had started another storm. Unlocking the door to her place, it was almost pitch black except for the small slivers of moon light that were peaking through the curtains. Emmy threw her duffle bag at the living room, huffing in annoyance at the shit she had just done. She had fucked up, and badly. She leaned against her door and slid down, her feet giving out as she neared the bottom. “Fuck!” she whispered as she slammed her head against the back of her door, “Fuck.” 

Frühling vorm Haus

Ich glaube in jährlichen Abständen fotografiere ich den schmalen Streifen vorm Haus, um das Gefühl einzufangen, dass das schlimmste überstanden ist und es ab jetzt wieder bergauf geht.

Nur wenige Wochen, wenn überhaupt, zeigen sich dann leuchtende Farben, frisches Grün, alles durcheinander, dass es die wahre Pracht ist. Viel zu schnell ist das meiste wieder verblüht.

Auf Fotos halten solche Momente doch länger…

Emlin Frühlingsimpressionen