As soon as I start to speak, I regret it.
As soon as I have written something, I regret it.
When I didn’t speak, things weren’t much worse.
In fact, they seemed better.
I knew that I would go through hell either way, so why complaining, right?
Why complaining, if the result is the same?
Why defending, if there is nothing to defend?
As a baby I didn’t cry much because I knew it wouldn’t help.
As a child I cried sometimes. What did it help?
Then I couldn’t most of the time.
Then each time I could cry, it helped.
But only for the time of crying. Only for the moment.
What did it help?
The path chosen for me, was meant to be dark as the night.
Could I burn each word of mine…
Would it be just for me, I would burn them.
Could I burn each photo taken of me…
Would it be just for me, I would burn them.
Would I take a hammer and smash every piece of data.
I could destroy all disks, all hard drives, all technology.
Wouldn’t matter that much anyway…
Almost no one really knows what was on there anyway.
Almost no one, if even someone would have understood anyways…
What doesn’t exist, can’t harm you, right?
When no one remembers, there is nothing to worry.
Only a name on a record and then gone forever.
Not even worth the effort of writing it.
Not even worth the time it took to keep it going.
Just a white space in between all solid letters and numbers.
Just a blank spot in the middle of constant progress.
No one really sees my progress, no one really saw my vision.
How should they? I didn’t exist after all…
Silly words of freedom, might be the best I could have said.
Silly words of hope, might be the best I ever written.
Silly words of love, the words which can’t explain…
The words are all just black on white or blue, on paper.
Without the space to write, I would just wait.
Waiting for my chance to leave, which almost found its way.
Not for me.
Others … only for others.
Each time I thought I was free, should have hated me more.
Each time I saw a golden future, I should have been real.
Each time I dreamed of the past, I should have stayed there.
Each time when I cried, I should have cried myself to sleep.
Each time I slept, I should have not woken up.
Then I would have only slept once, once and for all.
Peaceful, like the sun rising, peaceful like sunset.
Peaceful like trees in the open green.
All I wanted, all I have ever seen.
I don’t write, I don’t write to write.
I write because my hands are moving.
I write because these stupid words are forming in my head.
I write because a part of me decided to write.
And then it wasn’t for me after all.
Would I write for myself alone, I would have never started.
When I was younger, I saw no point in writing a diary.
There was no point in writing to myself.
Still I wrote poems or some kind of songs.
Broken stories, in which nothing belongs.
Not a single happy word, did reflect the dark I see.
And because it is so pitch black and empty,
I see golden streets, golden lights and trees.
I see a chance to flee, a chance to be.
But it is not here, it never was, not for me.
The hope tells me, I was meant to be.
And I know it is true, I know that one day, I might …
I know I might die. I know I might be free.
Be it alive or below the dirt in a hole.
Only a different position, a different place.
Different, for the same purpose.
To fade away, to stop existing.
To be one with the earth again.
The color light is white, the color light is a rainbow.
The color of freedom is black.
The color of thoughts is not existing.
The color of color is the absence of it.
When there are colors, then there is life.
But colors are dead things too.
Just values, just reflections of light.
Just a number of patterns in a system.
This is why I see a dark empty page and I see light.
And when I see a white page, I see a burning mark on my heart.
The white screen, I need to fill it with dark letters to make it less hurting.
I know, you might laugh, how silly it sounds.
But if so, you read it with laughter not knowing the truth.
If water would be life, then sand is what we are.
Dry pieces of dust and stone and broken glass.
You can see right through us when the sand it molten.
The wind carries us away, as if we were nothing.
Just sand, just dust, just broken pieces.
Nothing more to say.
And then water falls down on top of us.
Like lighting strikes, like thunder storm.
Soft and slow, as if nothing ever changed.
It makes us gray, makes us think and dirty.
As if we should be ashamed to receive it.
So the child of innocence can build a castle.
So the child of laughter forms a walls.
Only to get washed away by yet more rain.
By a wave of water breaking through.
And when all water left the sand again,
there is peace, there is warmth, there is me.