It’s a funny relationship I have with writing. It’s longing. To touch. To dance with. To express, but not be boring.
To hold and to be held. Up. On a fluffy cloud, like the one I saw from the airplane’s window during my first flight. No, not that! The ecstasy of take off! That’s it! I love that! The excitement, the zest.
The cheer when you arrive and you are welcomed with a hug and a laugh. From others and from within. To lift up and not press down, not to step on.
To touch. Not physically, but to feel it. To be felt. Like that guitar solo or like a saxophone. To have that between me and you, like the snakes and snake charmers in Morocco. Instinct.
Acceptance. Looking up to, that’s holding on and keeping oneself on our own palms of hands.
When you cry from exhaustion, or amid laughing fits, finding the absurdity of your own doing. The excitement and bravery. To defy and go against all those expectations, of standards and put yourself first.
To be vulnerable, knowing well that we can fall. but doing it anyway and be free.
I wanted that ISBN number. I wanted something to my name. Not a house, not a car, not endless stuff, not materials. I wanted something that tells my story. That it’s worth something. While I know very well that it isn't worth more than anyone else’s. And that’s the paradox and the parallel of it. The beauty I chase.
So I give what I have. I give it free.
To see myself in your eyes and you see yourself in mine. To know, we don’t need mirrors. We just need each-other and look into each-other’s eyes. See the movies of our lives with ears and hearts wide open.
See not ourselves but the spark that shines in her eyes. That’s the diamond under the coal, take it home from the mine.
She, with her silver hair, sparkling eyes and her earrings dangling happily, standing in her garden, amongst her flowers, while the circus passed down the street with elephants and monkeys and all of the sudden she was once again a little girl with wonder in her eyes and I stood beside her. She placed her hands on my shoulder and smiled.
We were together, looking at those beautiful big creatures walking quietly and seeing their feet and eyes. Always the eyes.
Keep. Keep her alive by being her. The world needs that spark.
I am just a messenger. I can talk, I can type. But without you I am not much more than sigh.
This reads like a love letter to creativity itself. It’s like seeing the world through a lens that softens the edges and then gives a dance. Full of wonder and a little bit of wildness.
Thank you for saying it so nicely.