Skip to main content

To the one who reads.

I'm a complicated book. The kind that gets picked up and tires you on the first page like a long novel by Victor Hugo. And you put it back on the shelf in the old library and you leave.

And I, lonely, long for someone who can read me. Some stranger from faraway who reads old complicated literature. Who understands my structure and doesn't miss a single comma. Someone who knows the value of how I'm crafted.

This stranger, from another continent, will make me want to come alive. Jump out of the yellow pages and speak to him. And wrap my arms around him and show him all the history and images I took away with me from the stained papers.I'd like to look him in the eyes, and tell him he indeed knows nothing, and that's the only truth. I know nothing.

But our nothingness, dear reader, is much more than the everything of someone else. Our nothingness, is something I can not bring out and let go off. Our nothingness is beautiful and dangerous. Our nothingness conquers all.

I'd like to look him in the eye, this thorough reader, and tell him a few of the nothings he knows. Tell him he can pick me and read me over and over again. Thank him for handling me with such care and intense interest. Ask him to take me with him everywhere he goes.

I never wanted to be a heavy book on a shelf. I want to be a pocket guide that travels the world, but you, who can understand me, are too far away, my favourite reader. I have to be happy with the place of honour in somebody's shelf.

Somebody who will handle me with so much care, he won't even dare to open me thinking my thin paper cannot handle turning pages. Somebody who, will know me for a masterpiece, but will never know why.

Because he will not notice the comma in the middle of the third sentence of the third page. The one that shouldn't be there, but has a strong reason to be written that way. He will not, because he doesn't know that we all know nothing.

He will not know what the hell this writer is trying to say. Or what in the world that verse about meeting me half way in Tokyo is about. He will know my price and worth, and he will have me in hard cover. But he will never read me like you do. Because he won't try to.

If I stop being written with a sub-plot of you and write for him instead. I'm afraid. I'm so afraid I'll have nothing to write about. I sometimes wish you'd stop reading and allow my letters to fade...

I would not struggle anymore at all.


Popular posts from this blog

In response to F.

There's wounds inside my head, stamped deep into the grey folds of my brain. Love cannot heal me.

Detached, distrusting, disillusioned, we are reduced. Perfect bodies that will rot like everything else, we are, just empty images of ourselves. You call it love, but it's just sex.

I heard love scream through the night. I heard it claim innocence in the morning because "love is a fire that cannot be contained." You wouldn't be justifying it, if we just called it sex. These bruises fading on loves skin can never fade in the flow of my veins.

I have felt love touch my skin and kiss the nape of my neck with such gentle and wanting hands. Just sex.
I do not believe love will ever lick my wounds clean and hold my hand tight enough that I will not be able to leave.

I do not believe love can wrap me in good thoughts and rays of sunshine bright enough to grow summer flowers.
I have seen love...

Love settled.
In a small town surrounded by everything love in her youth tried t…

The Prospect of Being Happy

I'm on medication that will make me myself again. The doctor said. But I
Don't know who to expect
to see
in the small mirror on top of my dresser
with polaroids of my best friend and I.
These medications,
Will make me myself again
The self I was
Before the illness started.
A self too young
To even have friends.
When I'm okay again,
will I still be a writer?
When I'm okay again
will I... really... Be ok?

Just add water.

I wrote a book about you, and the grey concrete that gave life to me. The dead cement, the rough surface that scratched my knees and made them bleed. The hot asphalt, glittering at the touch of sunrays that warmed my veins until blood would overflow and pour out of me like some gory scene in a horror movie only, much brighter. It gave life to me.
I wasn't born out of fertile earth or wrapped in sweet greens, I was, very much, a child of mud, sweat and dust. Tirana, this vicious parent with bullets between its teeth and a bleeding tongue.
Tirana this prison of sorts, beautiful, and charming and disturbed. My bipolar hometown, my little slice of hell. How I miss it. It gave life to me and slipped a pen between my fingers and a taboo between my legs and it told me to choose.
I do not think about taboos father, I am too careless, too temperamental for that. I am rough inside like the hot concrete that birthed and raised me.
I stare down, from a window up on the fifth floor of a pre…