I see the beauty and the pain. Always together, like two children, best friends. Equals. No, not equals. Complementary.
Some people see only beauty. Or only the pain. I was meant, or I chose to walk the fine and sinuous line between them. Neither there nor there. With one foot on a side and the other on the other side.
Sometimes, I dived into the beauty, ignoring the pain completely.
Only one time I dived into the pain, ignoring the beauty completely.
But a unicorn swept me off my feet up to the sky, to see everything from the top. And only then could I see that the two always collide. That there is always beauty in the pain and pain in the beauty, like the map of a country seen from the airplane. That there isn’t only good or bad. There is both good and bad. And, sometimes, rainbow. There is life!
In the beginning, was the word.
And the word is life.
I don’t really know what to tell you about me…And, honestly, I wouldn’t want you to know very much.
I am human. I am nobody. But I am part of all.
I know nothing. I would like that no one will know my name. Or my face. Only the words to find their way to those who need them. Maybe, those who have a moment when they feel alone in this world when they feel they don’t belong. And finding themselves, here and there or finding themselves smiling at my writing even for a second, to have the certainty that they are not alone, that somewhere, in another corner of the world, someone, someday, have felt and thought the same. This is how I translated god to myself when a poem written 200 years ago touched me. The agnostic inside me decided that very moment that, if someone 200 years ago felt the same, there must be an architect, and everything must have a connection, a meaning.
I am putting my heart here so that you can walk inside. It is not filled only with happiness and rainbows. It has been through a lot. But I still choose to walk with it opened. You don’t even have to walk carefully. After all, no matter what I would ask of you, everybody walks through others’ hearts as best as they can.
I am afraid I’ve survived. I can still laugh at myself. And believe in love. Today I start over. Again. I wake up pondering about life’s mysteries and its wonderful synchronizations, and I am grateful for my idiosyncrasies and the privilege to drift on the currents of my desires. I write intimately, hopefully with humor and imagination, at least sometimes, about what’s flying through my head and my life. I write words.
What if all these words will value nothing? Not now, in money, but in years? What if I give them all my power, energy, and in the meantime, my life…I wonder sometimes. But it doesn’t matter. Otherwise, I don’t fit anywhere else. I write because I have no other choice.