I used to fly like Peter Pan

Sometimes I just forget why I am here. Sometimes I don't even remember how to cry anymore. And then it JUST happens, and I cry and I'm here again. To cry is to come back. Somehow. In a way, it's to be me again, even if I just cry because of an old Chinese tale about mothers and daughters.
That is why, they say, the sea will electrocute us all. That's why I'm suddenly just full of nice dreams again, trying to catch them or trying to be taken away by them, just once. Again.
And I want to write my own tales about mothers and daughters, and I want to cook things that others can taste and remember things with me, and perhaps also drink, and tell stories. And then write also those stories, the tales about this city and me living here, living my years up. The things I feel and the things I don't feel in those times when I'm not feeling anything, when I don't cry.
I get too messy sometimes, and I start thinking I wouldn't like to go on like this, whilst my twenties are passing by. But then I just put on my apron, do the dishes, listen to The Bends. And there I am, back again, being 18 and crying all my misery out.