so many things to write about, so much going through her head, such a vortex that sucks her up into the almost inevitable urge to express herself, and the feeling those things shouldn’t be written down -it haunts the writer. she’s been there before; she doesn’t want to go back there.

she can almost touch each one of the reasons not to, they’re still so brightly red, so visibly lumped and well-formed. each one of them rising, one beside the other, like flowers blooming on a field that was never planned to be – that was never conceived and still stubbornly came into being against the season’s will. it’s like this obvious, ordinary garden, and she’s staring at the patterns it holds. some of them bigger, some of them smaller and still excruciatingly there: the scars. she can almost touch them.

it’s inevitable to feel them, even it’s just a careful stare and although they’re still so there after all this time – she doesn’t want to touch them . they remind her of the misery nonetheless, the countless paths that lead into those shiny pieces of evidence. what they exhale is empty as if they’re not there for a reason other then being reminded of her existence as a person that took things too close to the wrong area of her own existence. the one that made her feel, when she wished so much to just be numb enough not to go back there once again.

now she stares at the keyboard and it spells out each of the words she can’t get herself to write. each painful stroke on a letter key means a step towards the edge she knew so deeply. the abyss in front of her, built by the words written side by side forming the willing to dive into them free falling and openly. she can see that too. so attracting and so deceiving, in contrast to the garden in which her feet are rooted, the one that has grown so widely it can’t be ignored anymore. it’s omnipresent and it’s in her for good. her feet are on the soil of deception, from each she contemplates the abyss of the promise of life.

she tries to shake the overwhelming impulse to just try and write. she starts pretending not to care when she begins to place her fingers on each key, but although they don’t feel much more than the cold, senseless sensation of touching something so tangible, she interrupts briefly after writing a few words. that’s too much to take. there’s a turmoil in each though leading to a new letter spread on the screen, going from her mind to her arms and to her wrist and to her fingertip and there’s the resounding dizziness of each word leading to another wave of the sight that garden. her hands start looking like they’re all covered in them as if they could become even more real that when they were just inside herself.

one more word: “missing” and there’s where she stops altogether. she doesn’t want to go back there.

she doesn’t want to get back there.

she won’t write about it this time, but she keeps wishing she’ll feel free to put her words out because she needs to believe there’s some way one day she’ll feel the abyss whispering her scars don’t matter anymore. to believe one day they’ll stop hurting even though she knows they’ll just never go away. to believe one them she’ll be able to stare and find beauty in them through all the redness and misery. to believe being scarred doesn’t make her afraid anymore – it makes her who she is.