In me begins a new story. Not that I have just finished something old. That's already been done long ago, without me noticing. A new story begins, because I am that which was always there, new to understand and able to reinterpret.
This relief is so complete that I dare not forecast. I'm beginning to believe in the absence of gravity and the delicate beat of wings. In the vastness of my soul frolick hordes of butterflies. I embody spring which has sprinkled me with magnolias, waterfalls and illuminated letters.
Each mental vision would be a surgical procedure into something whole and perfect. I must be true. Gingerly I deal with the echo chambers of change. They are able to turn the smallest tears into raging rivers. And a flower is enough to carry beauty into the world. The void has taken new space - is that intellectually possible? The new story will not be the final version of myself. But it is no less important. My identity must breathe. This is the only prayer that I will speak. For now I dance alone even in the most beautiful nooks and crannies of all the seas, skies and feelings. But I'm glad if you find me.