I have been searching for a way to turn my life into poetry. To give meaning to the lonely afternoons spent with the beat of the blues and the gentle brush of the wind against the trees.

I have been trying to become art. To put into the spotlight the slow movement of my hips in the privacy of an empty living room.

I have been looking for the transcendency of making a day more than a day. To nourish my body with colours and alchemy. To bathe in the warm embrace of water and lavender. To lay in bed surrounded by deep darkness and self-love.

I have been wanting to grasp existence. To capture the endless rise and setting of the sun within this house of one.

I have been meaning to squeeze it so tight against my fingers that it would have nowhere to escape. So tight that it would penetrate my skin, pigmenting my every cell with its bright golden light.

And then I would burst into words and sounds and forms. Shattering this deep solitude into a billion bullet-like fragments that will pierce the soul of every being that looks to the deep sky in the twilight and is able to see the vastness. And is able sense the littleness.

But with such delicacy that there will be no more need for drama.

That it will have been enough

to just be.