Writting

The pleasure of spending time with myself. Hearing my own songs, my tastes, my preferences… It’s been a while since I gave myself the attention I deserve. Living to write, to sing, to stay in silence. Giving my mind time and space to create. If I could I would live every day like that, waking up enjoying my own company, bringing out just what my inner-self desires. As Hana said in The English Patient, with a cat and favorite pens, having a door no lover could cross, no outsider – just me, my notes, my books, my own little space and my thoughts. A cage, but a beautiful one; no, not a cage, a container. Containing all the thoughts, the emotions, the half-made whispered sentences that left my lips while I was writing, the fugitive wishes that passed my heart in a shadow; too quick for my eyes to see, too light-stepping to be captured.

How will my life be? I stare into the eyes of my reflection. Who is this one, gazing back at me? Outside, yellow windows, bright white lamps. Brighten balconies, lives happening inside of them – not mine, not any that I know of, but people just as me. Are dreams made of flesh? Do they use our blood, our veins, our oxygen, to wrap them around? Expensive gift wrappings, our energy and our organs and our insides. That’s why people dream less the older they get; there is less material, less flesh. Every time you share a secret with a friend, about that dream you had of the big house and the kids, of the white wedding gown and the trees, of the dream career and the dog, each of those is a piece of bone, of cartilage, that goes missing. That is why us, dreamers, are so light: we fly with the wind from lack of materials. Our bones are porous like those of birds, our hair is thin like tender grass, our mouths and eyes releasing flashes of light into dark nights and deep sea bottoms, pouring our joys over our chest, over my breasts, melting my legs left behind yellow ink – we leak, our taps of belief connected to infinite sources, older and wider than ourselves and all our souls.

Leaking, pouring, we walk through life. Leaving too much of ourselves to ever be whole, never getting as much back as we wished, as we planned, as we thought. Empty holes inside our chests, crispy towards the edges, rough to touch, coarse to feel. They get bigger and they get smaller, filled with love, filled with dust, washed by tears and stained with blood. But we do not bleed red – we bleed all colors possible. And leaking we go through life.

Lonely lost sparks wondering covered in snow, hiding behind glass windows in big cities, sitting under trees and the moon on the countryside, pairless souls, wanderers of the ghostly world of wishes.