most nights, you’ll hold the grief to your palms, you’ll let it caress your heart until you find yourself silencing the heartbeats around you. you’ll grieve from the things that wound you and you’ll long for the scars as they bury your feet to the place that you once called as an escape. most nights, you’ll feel the absence of your breathing, you’ll stand in between of their doorsteps, and you’ll let the death enters—you’ll dance along it, and you’ll tell that it’s the way you used to live because you believe that things always begin when it’s near the edge, or when your memory of the pain runs out. most nights, you’ll feel as if the cuts around your bare skin doesn’t hurt like it used to, and you’ll smile for you thought next time, flowers might grow from them. but also, you know it won’t happen. you know it for most nights, you can find yourself everywhere but you’re still in the same place that doesn’t seem belonged to you anyway, and some nights, it hurts.
maybe, you know that nights aren’t always the same as well as the days. you know that because some nights, you plan to witness the first glimpse of sun rays for you want it to see you crumpled in your sheets, grasping hope from hopelessness, and maybe by then, you’ll find a will to grow out from your graveyard, and remind yourself that you’re still alive. some nights, you’ll cry out of numbness; you’ll find yourself trying to bring back life but you’ll also find yourself on your knees realizing that life has never been yours anyway. it’s always been theirs. and it’s always been death’s. you’ll just offer a bitter laughter to yourself for you know you’ll lost yourself again. maybe not forever but for few hours or for a very long time.
that is how your most and some nights happen, but there’s this night when you tried to listen to your silence, you tried to dance along the sun rays daylight after, and you stand up to pick the only flower that grows in your bare feet. after of so many years, you moved your feet again for the first time, and you winced. it felt strange but you whispered that it felt good, somehow. i just hope that also at that same time—
your heart won’t forget to wake up.
— 22:24 l. sin, to move again
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from Paolo Barreta.
