April, I am wide awake; I cannot tell how many days have passed since my voice came back to me. I am wide awake, I am lost in the white of my bed sheets and I take a never ending deep breath, I close my eyes and I quietly pluck one feather of depression at a time. The deep roots of my depression scream in pain, they clench too hard on my flesh. My pain becomes too big to be felt anymore. I pluck harder and harder, every feather takes away a chunk of beating flesh and neurons. I pluck them harder. The white of my bed sheets is lost into the bleeding disfigured feathers; the spooky nightmarish feathers that are not mine anymore, and the flesh that’s tied to my soul with letters and ink and the dust of burned dreams. I am wide awake. Walking is like flying, I am so empty, I am filled with little deep holes, dark and bleeding; I put on some light perfume, a nice t-shirt and a pair grey of sneakers; my hollowed body has become perfect, so perfect for drifting and flying; a messy cloud of bone dust and dried flesh is floating above a sea of silence and mountains of disappointment.
May, where to go now? The words I have not written squeezes through my hollowed chest and fill the holes, they sprout little green and blue feathers. Where to go now? The words I have not written are heavy. They pull me downwards and slice through the cloud, the sound waves carry me, and I kindly stretch my featherfull wings, I take a never ending deep breath and I clap them together… I am amused with the funny fresh feeling in my wings; I am amused to the tempting sensation of getting lost where every direction seems like a forward to me.
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