Weightless

I’ve hit rock bottom. And yet, it’s in that very moment that I’ve risen to the highest point of my own existence, paradoxically. I touch the ground only after I’ve touched the sky. It’s in that delicate juxtaposition, where both the dark and holy types of honey collide, that I find myself contemplating the balance in my bones—my weary bones that crave to feel everything down to the root. If not, they don't stop. The insatiable movement, the blur of everything around me, mocks the monotony of what we call reality. It’s exactly this chaos that keeps me alive, alert, content, and satisfied. I’m not here to live a long life; I’m here to truly experience the intensity in every blink. Maybe it’s the Pisces in me, or perhaps it’s simply my hunger for truth. In hitting bottom, I’ve learned to dance perfectly with the weight of the world, which often feels suffocating, overwhelming, and unbearable.

I am a fierce balloon, breathing fire to soar toward the clouds, tasting the rain, licking the storms. It always feels so good to float above, breathing in the cold air that only the distant sky holds, so far from reach, invisible to radars. Up, high, beyond the world, so high that the galaxies become silver droplets tangled in my hair. And I love it. I inhale the breeze, I dance with life, bathe in the sun, fly with the moon, and sway with the stars. I am grateful for the inspiration it brings, like an elixir that soothes the silence in my throat and allows me to scream, to release this volcano exploding every day within me.

When I think I’ve flown too high, I leap again, finding more eternities behind doors I once thought were closed, at the edges of a universe that suddenly unfurls into walking words, like a fevered scene from an Italian film. I rise like a feather caught in the wind, drifting freely, with no resistance, and if I land on your desk, you’ll know I’m coming from the stars, for any of those dreams you thought you’d forgotten, now alive in your thoughts, all tied in a knot.