Plucky Thoughtfullness

Non-propelled

I don't even have the mousse to write anymore.

I want to. Yes, I do.

But Iit's impossible.

I want so much.

But I can't.

"You are the creator of your own hapiness."

"Take your own life into your own hands."

But how?

I'm so empty. So exhausted. So dead.

"Are you alive or are you just breathing?"

I'm breathing. And even that, sometimes, I'd just like to let go.

It's like I've been knocked down. Rolled out and squeezed out everything that was inside of me. It's like working a dough with a noodle wood.

Broke. Like all the little bubbles in a padding film that you used to crush as a child.

I'm just powerless.

Like a car that rolls along the side of the road for the last few meters, until it comes to a complete standstill because it runs out of gas.

Squeezed into the ground like the seeds of a flower. And I wait in vain for my strong roots to squeeze through the earth. Give me the strength to get to the surface. To breathe. To bloom.

But I'm too weak. Too suffocated.

And all those who have waited so long for my beautiful blossom are disappointed.

Yes.

I would like to tell you about how beautiful the warm summer wind blows through my hair.

How I cheerfully sing with the birds.

I want my stomach to hurt again from all that laughing with you.

That my eyes weep with joy.

I want to dance to my music like we're the only people on this sad planet. Until we have to lie down in the warm grass, sweating and out of breath, staring at the sky with a smile on our lips.

I want to philosophize with you about our meaning of life. Even if it's always the same thoughts that don't get out of our minds.

I want to be happy again.

Why can't I?

I'd like a cure for my unhappy, broken soul.

A pill to breathe life back into me.

Who manages to make my blossom always grow to the sky through the moist earth.

But the truth is, I could take any pill in the world, but it wouldn't change my situation at all.

I don't have the strength anymore.

I'm no longer alive, I'm just breathing.

And if breathing wasn't an automatic mechanism for survival, I probably wouldn't be able to do that myself.

I know, Dad. That's not how you raised me. It's not your fault, and I'm sorry I'm so weak.

I want people to be proud of me again.

That I'm proud of myself again.

"You only live once," right?

That's not how my life should be.

Please give me back my energy.

My joy and my strength.

I don't want to just breathe anymore.

I want to live.