I want to write some sentences; I want to talk to you, to see how I could rescue the soul that’s left within. Or make you feel the love this world owes you. You deserve much more than what we are conceding: our time, our guidance, our sharing, our shoulder, and our touch. To you, my fragile creature, the one who goes around trying to patch the many holes your skin presents, trying to live the second but scared of the uncertain future.
What did I leave you? A crumbling home? With walls at a pathetic angle? I see you so alone, wandering around; I see you chasing a non-true reality; I see you following someone’s steps, and they don’t take you anywhere. Take my hand; I wish that I could talk, that I could make amends. I want to let you know and let you feel that everything is there, inside your heart. Nothing is lost; your soul is all you need; it could be as big as you could make it from within. Nothing from the outside will make your skin anew: no pill, no smoke, no noise, not even another chaser in hot embrace melting. Turn inward, gather your treasures there and summon them; how definitely beautiful you are! And be free, my darling. Take my hand, just for the small pull or push, just to know that I’m here, but the horizon is all yours to make its hues.
And be free, my darling.
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