I Will Be HonEst

It’s tough.

No, it is not.

Or maybe it is.

Sometimes I feel like writing but, should I? There are millions and millions of questions that I ask myself and, still, I cannot answer.

I feel that, if I don’t write, I’m gonna die. Nameless. Just flesh that went on and struggled to work, love, pay, rest. It scares me to death.

I am sorry if you read this.

I am sorry if I took your time.

No. Yes?

There are so many questions rumbling inside my head but no one to ask… Ask. Who talks more than they think and who thinks more than they talk. I wish we could meet halfway and share. Like, back then. When the cherries were plump and sweet and full of sun.

I do not hate the now.

But I’d like to live in the now. In the here.

Because we all are somewhere far away where the life is different. Where it is better. Where it is richer, kinder, deeper.

But, what do we have, now?

There is now and I plead, I ask, and I fear.

This is not a complain. This is not a scream for help. This is not propaganda or critique or the beginning of a novel.

This is all I have.

A voice.

In between millions.

But I wish we could meet in the garden, and eat cherries and watch the sky.