Dandelion Hands

Wasted fantasies lying on the ground. In the graveyard of scattered dreamers who lost their wings. A race through the nights. Another lost soul willing to do anything to kiss the sky.

First, there was ink and then there were words, and from the beginning I looked at the words, I loved them, I touched them. I am very fragile when it comes to expression, because I was taught that there was no need for people like me anymore; for the benders of words; for the beautiful beings that filter remnants of stars into tangible things. Numerous times I’ve felt like a human being born abnormal. Inhumanely sensitive.

To me, a touch was a blow, misfortune was  tragedy, joy was ecstasy, a friend was a lover, a lover was a god and failure was death. I have always been in this melancholic trance, that I couldn’t escape no matter how hard I tried. But somehow, these feelings were too loud for words and too shy for the world.

It was a huge disappointment as a child, to fall in love with the stars and then find out how much math it requires to get anywhere near them. I built a world of magic because my reality was tragic. I resorted to pens, because I couldn’t pull the trigger. Honestly it was not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, physical shame and self-loathing. These devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me. I think I remained too much inside my head, and ended up losing my mind. Open windows with fluttering curtains. All the day’s pent up emotions finally leave my heart. Prayers for Aphrodite scattered like ashes across my bedroom floor. Syrupy lamplight, black journal pages, wet blue ink. An ache in my heart to be Hozier’s Muse. And at that moment, I knew, I was home.

Writing verses in the quiet of the night, laughing hysterically as my view of the world becomes more romanticized, falling on my knees in the middle, as my internal voice becomes poetic and the flowery vocabulary begins to tint my thoughts. I sit out with tears and metaphors gathered in my head like some winter storm. A lump in the throat; a homesickness; a lovesickness. And every word I wrote erased the agony. Little by little, then all at once I fell in love with the elegance of words. 

Why do I write, you ask?
Perhaps, to taste life twice.
Perhaps, in order to not go mad. 
Or perhaps, to touch the bottom of madness.
Perhaps, I write, because you exist. 


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