Scarabocchi

Love is like trying to fix an old tape player: it crackles, it hums, but you both stubbornly keep turning the cassette because you still like the melody. Words fly out hot, then become apologies, then jokes again through gritted teeth. It's that mix of irritation and tenderness, like punching a wall and then pressing your forehead against it to cool down. Everything seems wrong: arguments, jealousy, hushed phrases. But it is in this chaos that true life exists, with dirty hands and confused thoughts. They don't teach you the news, but the writings on the walls left by those who also didn't know how to love properly. And maybe that's the beauty of not knowing how, that after every scream, you still want to stay.