Confessions

I would have done almost anything for the remote chance of being read. For the opportunity to reach out and make somebody - anybody - listen. My life was full of wonders and I wanted to make everyone a believer. I wrote revolutionary and mediocre paragraphs alike. I was a true confessional writer, just on the brink of fiction from time to time.
But things have changed. I tried to learn other, more wholesome, ways of communicating, putting the content of thousands of would-be poems on display without rhythm. Skipping words as a way of understanding and dismissing verse as a way of mapping the world. For she reads the wonders from my eyes. There is no need for poetic documentary, for hiding between the lines.
These days words only serve the purpose of magic. Of lighting dark rooms. Of painting grey skies. Of making you believe... that reality is always different from what we thought it would be.