The curser is blinking, the fear that if I start to compose sentences out of words I would end up loosing the pearls I am holding in my hand, I am too afraid opening my hand and looking at them, they may not be real, they may have turned into chickpeas, or green-peas. No I am just clutching them tight so tight I may end crashing them under the pressure of my palm. Too tight and they will scratch and break, too loose and they will fall away and vanish. If I look at them they are sand if I don’t they are still pearls.
When each time you have held a flower and the flower tried its very best to poison you to death, each time you have held a gem, it burned through the palm of your hand entered your body, reached your heart and left serious burns to it, what else would you expect.
To type, one has to open the palms, I don’t know how I am typing this, trying to hold the pearls in the palm, scared they may also burn holes in my palm and travel through my body to my heart, afraid I will crush them to ashes in a brink of a second. Afraid to accept I have them because it can very well again be a myth like it has always been….
I live in a magical world for sure, where red turns a sad pale yellow, where soft, the moment you touch it becomes thorny, hard and rough. Where light is blinding white and the paths only go through the darks , where creature sneak upon you from the blinding brightness and the dark is filled with silence, and the silence and so extreme that its shattering your very core and jolting your very base and cracking your soul bringing it on a verge of shattering….
And I wakeup … or have I now slipped into a dream..