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Apr 2015
I needed a piece of paper and a pen to write this down.

I needed to smell, and touch the words as they pour out of my soul through my numb thin long fingers.
I needed to see my thoughts, no, my emotions, transform into ink and sit there on paper still.
I can imagine the scripture, the outcome, with a shaky handwriting and words so stressed and stressful that the ink is visible on the other paper side.
Yet, what’s written is unreadable.
I can’t see my own words.

I close my eyes hard and my hands harder. My small palms form two fists in which my numb thin long fingers snuggle into one another and only then their numbness seizes to dissolve.
My frustration is eating my numbness alive, and I do not know which side to take.

The paper starts turning blue.
A teardrop mates with the deep blue ink and they make an ocean out of the small piece of paper, or perhaps, a night sky.
One of my thin long fingers, that are no longer numb, escapes the group hug and feels my left wet cheek.

I open my eyes. There is no ocean. There is no night sky. There is no paper. But I can see my own words.
How fascinating what can happen in one blink
Written by
astronaut  30/F/nowhere, everywhere
(30/F/nowhere, everywhere)   
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