My Very Own Press On Tattoo

In this snowless winter, I walk the streets of this magnificent city and feel my legs go numb from the cold, my eyes water from the wind, my hands sweat from the warmth in my pocket, my mind wandering freely as if it was a summer breeze. The huge boat that hurries down the river, splitting the surface, creating waves, turning over the white side of the water, makes the mossy river look warm. The wind throws me off balance as I stumble over the bridge and I feel a bizarre desire to jump into the seemingly lukewarm water as if it was a scorching summer day.

In my apartment, sheltered from the wind and the cold, I sit unprotected from the fragile thoughts of others. Words that pierce through me, having just left the lips of another tangled soul. Someone far away. Then everything I want to be magnifies and there’s a sudden rush of ambitions, of self-confidence, of fearlessness. Before I move my hands back towards my chest to cover my heart, I embrace the invisible frailty and beauty, hoping that one day they will accompany me as visible friends on my long and wearisome journey.

With each day passing I try to make peace with the fact that I may never be loved the way I wish. If I cannot learn to wear all of me on the sleeve of my warm winter coat, I grow cold with fear that there may never be anyone to see me. I shyly and timidly try to uncover parts of my soul with each word I choose to sit on a page. Protected and wrapped I hand them over to you. If you’re careful enough, you will uncover the thoughts that have not been tempered with, that have not been disgraced, that sit guarding their brothers and sisters who have not left my fingers yet. They’re held together with the long and thin rope of this kite that sails in the air, circling around, waiting for you to catch a glimpse. If I was braver, you would know. But home is far and my words have only as much strength as I do and only as much confidence as I allow for them to have. The rest, the rest of the fight, I have to undertake alone. My hands bear wounds from deep cuts they have endured whilst protecting my heart. The pain becomes physical and my heart stays vulnerable.

The broken images that lay before me whispered unforgettable memories. She fell asleep to the most beautiful Rosie Thomas songs. He sat with his eyes closed, strumming his guitar to the sound of her voice. And I have my very own press on tattoo. All the while, I failed to see that my plants are miserably unhappy, sitting under my window, feeding off each others’ lonely looks and resting their roots in the tired soil I make them live in. Forget about the needs of my soul, forget about trying to take care of the muddled emptiness that’s around, forget about tying myself to a kite to leave this life, forget the immense beauty in loneliness, forget the yearning for another because there are three little flowers who are calling for me. And I call them: these friends of mine. These friends of mine.