Raise your head !

The sunflowers in my village had a curved spine.
They were always taught
that facing the earth made them more modest
than lifting their head up and following the sun.



She saw herself as pink,
like her existence in the spectrum was still debatable.
Like she was nothing on her own and just a blend of colors.

Some days she was blue,
traced back to ancient art,
she is porcelain with her thoughts carved all over her.
She is dyed in indigo.

Other days she is brown.
One, but filled with variations.
Chestnut, chocolate, burnt umber,
khaki, taupe or beaver.
She was all, and brown.

But most of all she is black.
She is achromatic.
Her darkness is her luminescence.
Where she is a perfect contrast to everything that gleams.

But I saw her like purple.
Like royalty.
I wouldn’t touch her with the cleanest of my hands,
Maybe just curtsy.

That little room with a window


I woke up again, 2.15 am on the clock, a different dream but the same room. Today I saw myself walking up the wooden stairs, stairs that took me to a room. A little room with a window. My actions would differ from dream to dream, but the room remained static. All I did, all I was, all my actions were contained in that same room. Standing on the entrance, I was looking for something. A ball maybe, or a doll, I don’t know what it was, but then, a beam of light fighting through the cavities of the wooden window distracted me. Scared of the dark and excited about what existed at the source of the light, I took one step at a time. Slow but anxious. I reached out to the window handle, just as I was trying to open it, I felt a tug on my shoulder, light descending from the window stung my skin; I woke up in agony.

In another dream, I saw myself playing in that same light, making way from the window cracks. It formed circles on the floor of the room. I kept putting my right palm on those circles, in order to hide it, but then it would appear on the back of my palm, and I would repeat with my left palm, and it would reappear. I did this for quite some time, but then another hand, placed itself on my palm. It turned my hand red. I woke up with a jerk, and checked the back of my hand, it wasn’t red.

In a dream I had some time after the previous dream, I saw myself holding yellow flowers, sunflowers maybe. Again I was walking upstairs. Happy, murmuring a rhyme maybe. This time I had no problem opening the window, but the moment I did and looked at my sunflowers and they were dead, dried and brown. First time in my dream, I had an emotion other than fear. This time it was an internal pain, an uneasy feeling within. When I woke up, the same feeling still persisted. I still felt like crying my heart out. I did.

That little room from my dreams, was the same room I was molested in as a kid. Some fine day, it all re-appears, in the form of a dream, in the form of a news headline, in the form of a latest hit movie, in the form of an instrumental music or even in the form of darkness. The memories still prevail, sometimes around and sometimes within. I wait for a dream where I can breathe in that room, not cry, not be afraid. Open the window like I used to and stare at the world outside. The open sky, the lush green trees, the fresh air, hoping it would fill my lungs again, which now felt hollow. A day I would have a dream, where that room felt just like it was, before being possessed by the demons of a paedophile.