These things were promises.
'Dear,
Life has nothing to do with being good, or being right, or being realistic, or God even...
Life has more to do with deadlines, uncertainties, the reach of one's arms, the ability to hold our breath. The ability to keep breathing.
Sometimes, life has something to do with the cold wind from the North. Or the rain against the window, or the dead leaves nobody is gonna pick up. Or broken things one desperately wants to repear. Sometimes, it is about tea and biscuits to serve to friends, long walks and warm hugs. And strong glue that keeps the pieces together. But only at its best.
I do not know. It is the smile of some old friends that once again prevents me from being realistic or right, even though, I know more than one would like me better to be that way. Long sights, I am certainly acquainted to, and struggles and extenuating feeling of running to stand still, of fighting for nothing, of having dreams almost out of my arms' reach, staring at me from the other side of the mirror. Yet, this has never made my life or my dreams less real. My dreams are real. They are mine, like my breath, like my arms. I feel them under my skin, scratching on my life's wall, yelling for all the things I do not get, for all the things I should be, for all the things I should do and postpone. And they still cry not to be secured on a shelf, inside a suit, buried in memories. Between those categories of life and years that do not come back, but it's nice to think you had that. They are drifting with me, in phases of my existence that aren't black or white.
The fact remains that outside my window, whether it rains or is sunny, there's a world that does not really want me. But, then, why should it?
The world does not really want anybody. It's full of right, good, realistic people who, resigned, wait for the bus. And the result seems not to change that much. And even the thought that it does not want me is not important. You need to try to make yourself wanted. You need to stand tall til you can, hold the breath til all the things that are waiting on the other side of the mirror will come towards you, at last. And maybe, maybe, if you believe hard in dreams and people's heart, the world is gonna start loving us too.
I strongly believe the world does not have any symphaty for the right or the realistic.
This is the other thing that has saved me till now, together with friends, teas, biscuits and the cold wind from the North.
'Cause when I finally and necessarily become realistic, and right, I won't sight anymore, breathe anymorewrite anymore.
I'll bake salt biscuits, have a look at the weather forecast to see whether to take the umbrella and get out of my house only to walk the dog.
Dreams.
"These things were promises. No doubt we will come back to them."
viv'