I can’t breathe sometimes because of my own-self. How can it go out of me? When the inside is red and the outside is white. When the urge of yelling is trap in a skull. When time is passing slowly and I’m looking with this stoical face at the snow by the window. When food and raw skin are the only thing that can feed the intern traffic of mixed threads. When I realized that there are no boxes on earth, that beautiful and bad are nourishing each other, that I’m holding the key while time is misled. It’s like those paradoxical nightmares when blue rodeo plays the ventriloquist with that scared woman. Her twirling dress is attracting the ghost in the big ball room made of ribbed wood, or wood scars. After all, we can sing the letters of hope loudly and pictured her dancing on her feet eyes open. But I want to sing with them too. It’s too bad that I can’t breathe while the circus is in town. Do you think that if I cut my hair like a lion, soon will I be proud and strong?
There’s morning like this, when something’s pressing deep in the chest. I tried to free it a bit with words :-) Maybe tomorrow my post will be more joyful!!