.a written note.

I put my spectacles down. I close the door behind me. I return here and go back, open the door and shut the window. I close the door once again. I return to this place. I have a square shaped empty white space in front of my eyes and a keyboard beneath the fingers of my hands that have been struggling lately to be stable. What I have in front of me is empty. And I understand it's meant to be anything but empty. It deserves to be filled. Filled with words like wine in a glass. Molecules inside me keep on triggering tears but while in the process of playing hard to come out of my body, they become words. They struggle to get out. But it is this soul's fault that's afraid to open a door for them. It is this concern that the pathways on the other side of the door are made of cement and such rigid atoms and those that struggle won't last the way they are. They're made of thin laces and they bath in naivety. I have been fighting with urges. I have been fighting with

If not anything, I'd come here with jars of coffee and write. Yes, there have been days when I step my feet here with my mind more nurtured than before. Words like baskets filled with Blueberries accompany me but I have to be careful so they don't fall down on the floor. I had never thought I'd have people waiting for what I write. I received your letters. They smelled like bottle green coloured trees. I read the lines you sent me and they sounded as if I'd promised to get back soon. I haven't really spoken with all of you yet we communicate in a way. The silent conversations bright up my eyes and warm up the way I look at everything you send me. It's the season of Autumn and it's beautiful in its own way. It's been a month since I heard the sound as I type these words. I'll keep the unmade promise nonetheless. I've got stories to tell. People to introduce. Volumes to write. How're you all doing? I'm sending love. And I hop