“If There’s A Cure For This, I Don’t Want It”

Something is going on in the inside that comes from the outside.

Like the seasons, you always seem to come back.

For the times I suffered and I thought I was alone, you were there waiting to come back.

Like a wheel going round, but not moving forward they came for you. Trying to cut out with their invisible scalpels what was given to me.

If I can let you go again and again, of course I can let you back in, because this is not mine this, this, is something beyond me. Something beyond you. In fact it’s not about us at all. It’s about speaking without conversing. It’s about talking with the heart rather the head.

“A slender  pen  gripped  by  resistant  fingers”

I can’t write anymore. I loth everything I say.