The way I see it, my head makes my body feel like it’s a cloth being wrung out submerged in a body of water
How the tables have turned, my lungs can soak up the air when my mind says no
I’m sitting, staring into my own eyes through the outside looking in, just a boy who had something stripped, wiped from him
He had no idea that he would face drowning in a different context, fell into a pool but was saved, now it’s become difficult when it’s not fluid that’s keeping him under, its his demons
Older now, writing words splashed across paper like an artist using nature as their canvas, incomprehensible to the human capacity, coherent only from the creator’s paint brush
Spilling unto a sea of colours, swimming against the grain, he’s alive today, hit with the brisk cold, winter’s embrace has fooled him once, twice even thrice.
He knows that he isn’t what was, but what is and can be. Can’t walk into the past with a closed door, so he pushes the old ones open looking for a way to weave around the crops and take them by the roots.
It hurts, it hurts but it’s over and done with.
Writings From The Cafe. Part 4. B.T.