I did not publish a new post for the past days due to a reassessment of my writing skills.According to my mentor, I was in the fourth stage of the writing process.
I should learn constraint.
Constraint? I had been in my shell for many years, afraid that people will bruise my fragile soul. When I decided to show my works, it was my moment of breaking free from the suffocating cocoon I wove for myself.
I was about to show my worlds to people when my mentor held me back for my good.
Learn to hold back your ideas for a while, he said.
Now I realized it. I had been pushing myself forward too hardly yet blindfolded. I have to look before I leap.
I paused in writing this piece and took a deep breath.
Release the tension, but hold on to yourself.
All it took was a slip of the tongue
to bring my brutal empires down.
With a shivering caress of my skin,
the mind returned to its body.
The warmth of another broken soul
woke up my decreasing hope.
The demon hushed itself
to open its mortality to the heavens.
Now I softly remembered
the cursed blessing of being human.
What would happen
if someone who lost hope
who was treated as an object?
They might understand each other,
their ideas starting to intertwine,
their feelings discovering a destination.
It is the reason why
abandoned places have
this certain peace
dwelling inside them.
They become the sanctuaries
of the broken.
Don’t you see that
your words are your swords
to face the angels and demons
of your tiny existence?
Don’t you hear that
the beating of your heart
the war drums that signal
your own empire?
Don’t you feel that
the indirect excitement
rushing in your veins
is the incredible fuel
for your dance of life?
Do not turn back now.
At the end of most stories,
triumph flies high.
On this cold and light-stolen desert,
there will always be a solitary man,
known as a rogue warrior of the past
or the blind prophet of the unwanted,
who will take a dusty track made for him
in memory of an exultant failure.
No one dared to follow him
or even ask about his destination,
for no one has ever truthfully found
the horizon of shifting conscience.
At the end of that invisible road,
something awaits his recurring return
with the void of his former face
draping on his volatile hands.