I took a plane to Berlin, to breathe for a while.
Not that I have a lot to complain about – life flowing smoothly between
home-made dinners and ideas to put together in a life I get to choose.
But for some reason,
in this impeccable shoving of days like pearls in a thread,
I can’t seem to find balance and all those other phrasings to stay afloat.
So I get on trains and spend long nights in Nordic hostels of bunk beds and cheap drinks.
I look for what I want to hear in the words of those I happen to find along the way,
those things I don’t find the courage to trust – eternal promises I make with myself to plunge right into what I want and do it for real, this time.
Because this life I get to choose is waiting for me right there
on the seabed I don’t know the shape of,
under those layers of blue I keep having second thoughts about.
And I kick
and I shake
and I wiggle on this surface that now feels so tight.
And I wish I could just take a deep breath and row with who it is that I am and see what colour the seabed I dream about really is.
But for some reason, I hold tight to all trivial excuses and lighthearted talks,
stupid water wings I insist to wear not to go deep.
And I’m now drinking mint tea in an ordinary city,
yet another shot to find a place to call home, a space to fit in
– knowing for sure that all I want is to disappear in a line of bubbles flowing above my head, see the water get blue, black, and down, down a bit more,
touch the ocean floor
and grab a handful of sand.
And in that place so far from all ideas I’d ever painted in my mind until then
– in the furthest corner from what I’d ever known –
So here I find myself,
with miles under the soles of my shoes,
with the sketch of a butterfly given to me as a gift on the first day of spring.
Reminding me that spending too long anchored to the ground, you forget how to breathe.