Why do I write... sometimes I wonder, I wonder what's the point of throwing all these thoughts of mine into the vast dark web.
Do I do it to be read, in a sort of search for omnipotence? Out of loneliness maybe, but no she doesn't need to be exalted. Maybe I do it to waste time or to fill the moments when I have nothing to do... No, it happens. It sounds silly or simplistic as a concept, but believe me it's not like that at all: I feel inside your head the birth of a thought, like the infinitesimal drop that opens the breach to water.
After the first one just behind, another one comes chasing after it and then another and another, together they become a rivulet that doesn't stop and becomes a stream, a little river, to turn into a torrent, a precipice. Here, this is the exact moment when I feel all the pain of what I write, all the weight. I should stop dredging up all these damn memories every time, they're like huge stones accumulated in the dark corners of my heart, too bulky to be thrown elsewhere, I have to keep them by coloring them with my little life victories.
Most people manage to take refuge in other arms, they change partners with the speed of light, in this great take away of life, where everything is possible. I can't, loving for me is forever, something that is no longer contemplated these days. I don't belong to this consumerist and light world, all the words I say weigh on me, I write them down on those huge polished boulders I carry inside: if one day someone should come in and read them, alas, it will be too late, I will probably have gone to a tropical island, with my cats to enjoy the sun. [©Yelena b.]
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