I create, I imagine, I write. I bring eloquent memories to life, tell stories about beautiful girls with hearts that would melt in the summer sun, talk about nature in fascination. I am a creator, I breathe life into people and plan memories like an architect constructing a complex ideological heart that beats like the ones in real life and breaks like the ones in real life. I can create eyes that curve like the beautiful eyes of newborn kittens, I can write about the warm breath of a teenage girl, I can bring back people that have already turned into ashes and blown with the wind but always in dreams.
I die, a little, every time I write. My heartbreaks every time my fingers long for the familiarity of a pencil, my eyes swell every time my mind longs for escape. Where are the people I long to create? Where are the people I spend hours of my time breathing life into? Where are the beautiful girls whose hair smells like oranges and whose eyes shine like the millions of stars in the sky? Why does death hurt so much even though I write them to be beautiful? Why do I always create dreams that aren’t meant to be dreamt? And why is life never as beautiful as I imagine it to be? My hands are tied but am eternally cursed watching my mind dance as boundlessly as the breeze. I hear music that does not exist, I fall in love with people who live only in the quiet confines of my mind, teasing and prodding me, ever so slightly. I want to create beauty that takes my breath away not only in dreams but before my waking eyes but how much power can simple symbols on paper have? How much power can a lonely writer, scribbling away at a lone piece of paper have?
I write and I create in words, in sentence and in paragraphs. I create memories for myself, I create people that keep me company and I get lost in magic that ends, so swiftly, like waking up from a beautiful dream that does not want to be interrupted. I dream for long only to be woken with a disturbing jerk, alone and within the confines of reality with something as small and simple as a dot.
© Copyright 2016 kichkandi. All rights reserved.
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