LDV
~
She feels as if her heart is getting crushed under the weight of her worries - of the world. And deep down, she wonders how she made it this far, how she kept her relative sanity. I wish I could tell her that within her heart lies a universe, one that could never be filled by neither sadness nor void, a universe that can magically hide its light behind her eyes. But I can never tell her that. Because we don't speak the same language. Hers is for those who think they belong here. And mine is, well, for me - and probably for some of those who don't.
Her child is sitting in the back of the car, his eyes glued to the rear window, his chin resting on the numbness of interlaced fingers. He's wondering why none of the strangers are noticing him, how caught up they are in their own reality - behind seatbelts and clothes and skin. His lips are unintentionally moving to the words of a revolutionary song, unaware of how much their color rhymes with martyrdom, and that they will one day kiss both the idea and the meaning behind it - that the depth of the word is the depth of the hurt. The child was enslaved by his loneliness, hoping to be freed by love. So, perhaps, he was not truly a child.
In his artistic attack against homosexual oppression in the 1970s, a Greek poet came across a rather wonderful metaphor. Today, its modern English variant is phrased as follows: "They tried to bury us. They didn't know we were seeds." Clearly, the use of this fine alignment of words became far more general, spanning across every corner of the infinite concept of freedom.
More tears have been wept for fictional characters than for "the broken, the beaten, and the damned." And those tears could easily flood all the poor and unfortunate along with their possessions. It kind of makes you wonder why we fall in love with fictional characters; with people we don't truly know. And it makes me wonder how many times I was someone's fictional character. Also, the whole thing reeks of hypocrisy.
[...]
"The past is already written; the ink is dry."
And like each lone paper that was written on, folded, and thrown into oblivion, never to be found again, I became what I became. Though I remain unread, I became what I became. And, maybe, I refer to the bits of papers that became me as an unregistered aircraft that can never crash to the ground just because - Because the ten-year-old version of me closed his eyes and pretended that his hand-made, heart-thrown paper-plane disappeared in the horizon.
The ink is never dry. It's in every teardrop, blood-drop, breath and sigh.
And your shadow will always spell out your form, until you find the right alignment.
The ink is never dry. It's right there in your eyes.
So whenever you're not pretending to be a grown-up, use it well.
~
LDV