I remember simpler times, when my sister would provide me with the newest music from the British Isles.
I remember simpler times, when all I wanted to do was write.
I remember simpler times, when to follow suit and find a footing in England’s green hills was the highest of my aspirations.
To own a bookshop, to write my own novels, to sell whisky and cigars.
To travel to the mainland once a month to go to the theatre.
To have a loving wife, to cook together, to read together on the porch.
I remember simpler times when dreams were a reflection of what I truly wanted.
I remember simpler times, when politics only meant that I would vote once every couple of years.
I remember simpler times, when I didn’t feel inferior for lack of having achieved someone else’s ambitions.
Oh to travel back to my mind back then – to find a niche within it and to read.
Instead my heart and all its aspirations must constantly bleed.
It is tranquility, quiet productivity for which I have a true need.