If

If I were true to myself
I would stay here no longer than August.
I would fly yet once more to the city
and get rid of the stiffness that prevents me from writing what I want to write.

This afternoon the mailman came to bring me the music of those days back in April.
The soundtrack of my journey.
What a relief! How joyful!
If I close my eyes while I listen to it, I can feel again the chillness of the mornings.
I can feel again the coldness of the tub, when I stepped into it for the early shower.
A soft white light coming through the window panes to embrace me.
I can taste again the creamy buttery croissants with jam, of the daily breakfasts.
And I can hear the rocking and rhythmical sound of the trains crisscrossing the southbanks.
The view through the windows, rapidly showing me the buildings, the many buildings in the background, clever shapes defining the skyline of those flat lands that extend with no boundaries.

But how can I be true to myself if it involves getting rid of scruples too!
It is me that forbids me to be me.
Where lies the choice?
Is it really mine?
Am I to decide?

The only thing that I know is that I'll regret it if I don't throw myself into it,
if I don't let it be.
If...