Perception

He said: you have writing.

Not knowing I don’t have that talent anymore.

Not knowing I now struggle with feeling. With letting my soul breathe the way it knows best.

I wonder if that is why my life seems so blurry at this exact instant. If that is why I feel under water. Under pressure. Under.

I live the struggle of having to bounce back and forth between the concise English language and the long and dramatic Portuguese language.

He stands in front of me telling me I don’t know the culture of America of the 90’s. He stands there disagreeing with me.

I burst into tears. Dry tears they are. Because I can’t cry anymore.

I have a new job. A new lover. My spiritual journey is unfolding. I am learning new pieces of information that somehow help me. But what kind of help do I want? What kind of help do I need?

If being happier means that I can’t write anymore, then what does it mean to have the talent to do so?

Dry tears. Three wishes hanging from my neck. An aqua blank notebook to my right.  

Wonderment.

The power of words over me. It is always magical to learn new words. To live with them. To brew them in my soul and in my brain.

While you look at me, all blue eyes, all amazement and disdain, I entertain words in my head. Not angry words. Screaming words that say: don’t you see I am really telling you that I love you? Isn’t it clear that this is the only way I have to tell you: be kind. Be gentle with this heart. It has been so mishandled that it may shatter again. And then what are you going to do with a shattered heart? Pieces of cutting crystal.

I don’t want to see you bleeding. I don’t want to see you fulfilling your own prophecies of self-pity and lack of love. Because I am here with a unsurmountable amount of love to give you. Just let me.