i, who had been thinking about myself, comparing me to a garbage, a clown, to the whole universe,
without having limits and capacity to be at the limit of things as i am here, after all — someone who knows nothing about life.
i can write about the life i'm living
but most often it feels like i'm just writing,
not living.
but that's never stopped me before
so i continue writing.
it's strange as someone's face i barely know and who vague reminds me a person who lived in my soul and hurt me - a simple sketch composed of eyes, face apples and a cute nose - have the power to put hot and yellow words in my mouth.
again, i, who had said, "now, i can try again,"
i discover the wave slaughtered against me, spreading everything that i had, letting me the work of accepting that only black and white in life is now the roots wrapping around my head where there are only empty tables and no one ever comes to dine in it.
i wish i could finally inhale and exhale freely but sometimes i still need to choke.
i need to be reminded that this shadow sitting in front of me,
this mask where to spend two eyes, has power to hold me back, to close me in a room without window; to make me walk to one side to the other as a butterfly through the lamps. but i wait.
i will record in words of a syllable how your colorful eyes made me realize this, that and everything else.
kindness is not another formulated system i use in order to feel accepted.
everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. so i beg you to comes by and see me as something worth saving, that i grip your hand and i ask you,
even though my life doesn't gets colorful, can you still be my Jules?
