In solitude we write. In solitude we think. In front of ourselves we bleed. I’m an introvert in recovery. No one told me you could be more than one thing. Now I want to be everything and more and it’s still not enough. I want to show my scars. I want to dance with him and not have it mean anything else.
I like ghosts. I live in a town full of them. Ghosts have managed to stick around after they’ve lived. They live lives less conventional and full of past mistakes. They’re trying to kill me and take me with them, I don’t resist as much as you’d think. But my restless heart won’t let them take me. I still have words to write, songs to sing and thoughts to catch.
I’ve been taken to different corners of the world. I know more than I should. I’ve been her, you, me. I cannot let go of the depth because it would be a betrayal to all of those who have traveled to the underworld only to find Persephone isn’t quite what you’d think. I’ve withered and I’ve bloomed. Whenever a chance of a ‘real’ life presents itself, I chase it long enough to scare it away. I remain silent and alone in my beautiful garden. I’m about to turn blue but then I see a unique violet that wakes my senses and I’m saved again. I get to start a new life every single time. I get to discover, I get to observe.
The face you’re currently wearing is a beautiful one, filtered by screens and hidden by loneliness. You caught me when I was hurting and I chased you around in my head. It always takes my breath away, how we live and interact, trying to save each other from whatever they told us we should fear.
I’m standing close to the wall and letting the flowers cripple inside. I’m looking and not living. I need to become the healer to the hurter. The pain is finally bearable and I don’t miss you enough to reach out. I miss myself. I miss the person I’ve always longed to be. Yes, maybe she’ll never exist but if only I believe she can, she’ll be able to carry a message to Lucy and tell her what living is all about.
I’ll be ill soon. I wanted to send him love letters but now he’s moved away and I don’t know where those words belong. Maybe I could send them anyway and someone else will find pleasure in knowing someone strange longs for them.
I’m finally content with the choices life has made for me when I sleep. Confused by its impulsiveness, anger was in place and ready to attack. But stories settled in and an understanding of the chaos followed. I get to be a witness and try to challenge shapes to become colors. I get to see you and be me; even if only for a blink of an eye. I was here, you were there and now it’s all here in my head.