I always longed to make my roots somewhere.
To feel I was belonging to someplace. Having the conviction I could find peace when in a precise spatial delineation within the universe, coordinated by geographical points;
And nowhere else.
Then I heard life saying:
The trees, they are outside!
Grab your arm. Clench it: it hurts. Skin changing color. Flesh sweating, swelling, smelling.
Arms pointing, holding who you love, stretching to turn off the air on the plane that is only on your face, stretching when you wake up in the morning. Those branches you possess unravelling towards the above, the undiscovered, the infinite possibilities, collecting the oxygen that makes your blood run, faster;
And I looked around, and I was possibly by myself, surely within myself: but nowhere where I had to be.
“I promise, I’ll be good”
I wrote it with colorful crayons, the more colorful the more reliable, on a letter to be sent without stamp.
“I’ll be good, I swear”
And it was a box wrapped by polypropylene silhouettes of Santa telling me I had been so.
Even if I stole the bracelet of Barbara that afternoon…? I found myself wondering.
Yes. It was so easy.
Now there is no mail to deliver. Nobody would bother reading it.
“I swear I won’t do it again”
But it is in my mind only. A mantra repeated countless times.
5 am, I find a piece of paper and a pen almost used up.
“It won’t happen again” I carve it in between the lines.
If I write it down, it feels like I am not talking to myself only.