Thursday, March 28, 2013

3 000

When I was little I used to love chasing butterflies across the meadows surrounding our summer house. I wanted to keep and own them until my father explained to me that I couldn't. "If you touch the wings of a butterfly", he said, "it will never get off the ground again". The sudden guilt felt almost claustrophobic, he took my little hand in his and everything was quiet around us and the sun was setting behind the woods. "Remember", he said, "there are always going to be people that want to bring you down".

I write for selfish reasons. I write because I have to, because if I didn't I wouldn't be able to make sense of anything in this world. I need to know that there is somewhere I can go when that claustrophobia creeps up on me again, threatening to pull my wings off and destroy those dreams I have about flying. I need to know that I'm not alone and sometimes I feel as if I'm screaming into the dark and there's no one there to answer, but deep down I know that you are, all of you.

This is a monologue and I'm thankful that you're still listening. For how long have you done that? When did you first find me and what would you ask me if you got just one question?

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