I started to write. Without thinking. These childhood memories came through:
A mere glance at myself and I fall into the depth of confusion.
How did this occur?
This life, so filled with paradox.
So filled with colors.
The house isn't even a house.
The mother isn't even a mother.
None of us are what we claim to be.
No color is true enough.
Your blue might as well be my green.
I've been lied to by my myself.
Don't check my hair for lice.
I know they are there.
And the touch of your impatient hands remind me of the times you brushed my hair as a child.
To rough, I can do it myself.
Dancing, I'm not beautiful enough.
Music, I'm not courageous enough.
Drawing, I'm talented.
School, I feel imprisoned, I can do it by myself.
Clothing, to ordinary, I can do it on my own.
Friends, to demanding, I'd rather be alone.
Friends don't really understand.
Only I understand.
Family, a warfare, I'd rather have peace, alone.
Love, I'm fearful, I'd rather be alone.
I'm sick of being alone, I long for company.
The creatures in the forest knows.
They love me.
The ladybugs and the cats.
The chickens and the rabbits.
The dogs and the wind.
The water and the fire.
The laughter and the joy.
The carrots in the ground.
The silent knowing that all is well.
The flowers in the garden.
I love the gardener who planted those.
The grass under my bare feet, in the afternoon, midsummer sun.
The clinking of colliding beer bottles between friends at the weddings.
The harmony of the choirs.
It all started with a conception of love.
Turned into a distortion of love.
The changing of the seasons is my true parents.
The whispering of the ants beside the giant willow.
The memories of fear.
The right here, and now.