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Writing lines in my head

I'm writing lots of lines in my head. I’v cleared the day for writing. Writing about love. But today I'm writing about fear. Because there is no love without fear.

There is so much fear in the world. As I write this I can feel it. I can connect to you, right at this moment feeling fear. There’s a woman, she's busy with organising documents in her office, photocopies, envelopes, conversations with people behind a cast wall. Inside her there is fear.

It hurts, sad to touch the fear. Each fear is a threat on existence. What if they discover I'm not who I present myself to be? Death.

What if they see that I'm not worth it? Death

What if I won’t be able to write something successful? Death.

To be seen

To make it…

Death. Death. Death

I was writing many lines in my head while I was getting myself arranged - I drank, made a toast, took a shower, actually the other way round. All the while inside myself I was busy writing lines in my head. In my head they flow and stream without a problem. In my head they play and connect to one another. They have wonderful interesting conversations. Poetic conversations. I’m writing lines in my head and they live without fear, without distress. They glide in a dancer’s flexible movements, lifting up legs high to the sky. They touch the goddesses of the word and books. They kiss the clouds. There, I got stuck.

Bubbles of air. In a moment the clouds will cry. Finally, the tears will hit the page, leave stains like crumbs. I will try to decipher what they want to say to me. Just a minute ago they were lines in my head, but in front of the page everything is silenced. Gone. I'm alone. Death.

The lines have abandoned me and I stand by myself like a little girl going to first grade, can't understand what the hell she did wrong, what didn’t she understand. Standing in front of the gate looking at all these kids beyond the gate. My mother is far away, hiding around the corner. She thinks that I can't see her, she follows my every movement. She writes lines in her head. She writes lines of new dreams as I grow up and cross the gate. I write.

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