Friday, December 2, 2016

Gone days

There are days that  I can't help but run back to my childhood. Right back to the start  when life seemed to be so natural, a process so easy  like the breath is to the lung. I don't know how to explain why the past seems to be so attractive. Why all these days that never happened seem to be the only chances you've ever had? It almost feels like you had a choice between  jumping on your train or tying yourself to the tracks, and you chose the second. That's how the past looks if you step back and see the bigger picture. It's a shape full of edges that seem to pierce you whenever you try to touch it. 
   What I can recall now from my past it's this little girl with all this messy hair that never seemed to be in place, who used to overwater her flowers because she couldn't stop giving. She would drawn the plant and then cry for its loss, yet she would repeat exactly the same pattern because she couldn't draw the lines. It's the same little girl that she was afraid both of the darkness and the light, for both of them nurtured a danger in their core. She was afraid of a paradox that she was so often dwelling between its poles. She was afraid of the unknown and at the same time of the notion of what lies beneath. And I love her for that, because it was so human. For the humans only a certain amount of consiousness is needed, otherwise their hearts would turn to stone and that burdain would never be able to carry in their chest.
    In order to stop these fears from getting shape in her mind she used to listen to fairytales everynight before she goes to sleep. Two or three stories were enough to distract her brain and lead it to new directions. In a world so private as her own she could use all the colors she was inside, colors that are not invented yet. And in this very moment her optimism wore boots and it was loud enough to make her brave. 
  It's quite funny how this kid is moving uncomfortably inside my body now, a body of a woman. I seem to fall from elegance with a dull thud way too often because of it. But my body feels different than before and it's only natural for me, my real inner me, to adapt its features. If it wasn't for all those nights that I left the tv on to make me feel less lonely when I was about to sleep, I wouldn't have believed that this girl survives after all.
   I feel like I should open a branch in here and tell you that I never expected that silence is something you could actually hear. I found my way in covering its screams with fairytales and tv, with every other human voice that would make me feel less empty. And here lies the second paradox; how does emptiness feel so heave ? 
    Now if you ask me why I feel like this I won't be able to answer. I guess it's because I grew up. I let myself grow up and burry my child behind my eyes. A step closer and a carefull look would give it away. I willingly swallowed my heart that used  to be my torch and caged it behind my ribs. I thought that was the right way, to give to my rationality full control. I casted away all the possibilities of magic and therefore I couldn't find it anywhere. 
   First I  got hurt by the whole process of breaking my dreams to pieces just because they were impossible, impulsive and irrational. Then I felt terribly sorry of what I have done. I guess that's the moment when you realise you are empty, when you have abandoned your own self for the shake of the others, of what they would call or think it's rational and right. When you blindly put them first because you are too scared to stand alone, but they never do the same and they never choose you. 
   That's what I have to realize, that no matter what I have to minimize the distance between my heart and my brain. I have to forgive myself and let it be real without the fear of rejection. I have to draw my lines so I can never let anyone define me wrong again. 
I need to reconcile with my heart and let the others just be. I and only I should be the captain of my soul. I have to accept my mistakes, all that I have made and the ones that are yet to come. I have to accept them with my hands wide open, as a chance of climbing higher. 
   I need to love me again instead of clinging to the idea that I am the reflection of all those who couldn't love me. I need to find my way instead of following the ones I claim I love. Now which direction I should take, it doesn't really matter since I have no idea of where to go. I just have to keep walking because if there's any truth you can sum up about life is that it goes on. It is always going on.