Yellow

Nothing To Write Home About

I'm having the time of my life, I can't lie;
But, damn, I get really sad sometimes.
I don't recognise myself in new cities;
A foreigner, a stranger, even to me.
With millions of memories reaching out;
I seem to find nothing to write home about.
A statistic of the stupid traveller;
Mangled into a strategic worrier.
Snap out of this, enjoy yourself;
I say as I take three deep breaths.
I want to write home and tell you how I'm doing;
But a blank postcard would send you into a tailspin of worry.
So I don't have anything to write home about;
Let's keep it that way, I enjoy the vacant doubt.

I'm in Italy right now, it's anciently magnificent.
I see you in the faces of the masterpieces by Titian.
Every brushstroke, each dab of color;
I see the eyes of my beloved mother.
I'd love to come home to you but I can't right now;
You see, youth is fleeting and I've still got it somehow.
So I'll hold onto it as long as I can;
Today I'm going to The Vatican.
You can text me but I won't reply;
Birth me but I will die.
And that's just the way things are;
And that's just the way things are.

I think that's my motivation for fleeing;
Being stuck in my hometown magnified my fear of dying.
What if I died before seeing the Trevi Fountain?
What if I died without seeing snow on an Alpine mountain?
Electric shocks course through me at those thoughts;
Severely damaged, tainted pieces of art.
So I guess that's why I've been running for the hills as long as I can remember;
It was never about me and my big ol' temper.
So, maybe I do have something to write home about;
A kid on the run from fate: that's something I'd read, wow.