i had a condescending character that I buried under a pile of ashes;
of smiles,
good times,
and you.
i spent a lot of time alone,
when one day i discovered a forest.
a beautiful, magical, perfect forest.
and she was my secret,
for she was like me: alone.
i spent a lot of time talking.
she spent a lot of time listening, attentively, patiently.
one day she told me she had never experienced love.
“how does it feel?” she asked,
as the wind rustled and tickled the branches of her trees.
i took in the breeze and squeezed out the only word that came to my lethargic mind:
“pain.”
“i don’t know how that feels either.”
how fortunate,
how fortunate was it that her loneliness caused her to live painless while to me,
it was all it caused.
suddenly,
the idea of her perfection,
her absence of pain was as if someone had bathe me in kerosene and lit a match in my brain,
because suddenly i had the idea to ask a question on fire.
i marched to her,
one match in my had and the fire provoking liquid in the other.
“i am showing you how love feels!”
and so,
i began to put into action my newly conceived idea.
i slowly showered her with kerosene,
caring some,
caring less,
as i spared through her my hard work and sweat.
trying to console my mind that this is what she had asked for as i repeated our conversation over and, over again.
i stop,
i breath,
i scrape the match against one of her trees.
i ponder-
is a question worth asking if it’ll provoke a forest fire?

i found it pretty
the sky, that changed during the day.
the bright sky
that also had the capacity to turn into the vast dark sky,
illuminated by the moon and the stars.
and in between as the sun hid its face, and then came back again.
every bit of it, do you understand? Its perfect.
do you believe in me?
i know you find the time i spend looking at the sky ridiculous, but that’s only because you don’t know how it feels to stare point blank into those eyes with fire and ice.
do you know how fire and ice feel?
the same.
but they are radically different  
isn’t that insane.
you’re insane, you would say.
and i would respond,
and i don’t have too,
because you have looked into my eyes.

isn’t she pretty?
the sun and moon.
clouds and starts.
the rain that can happen in the beginning and end.
the setting nd rising.
isn’t she pretty?
sky during the day and night.
and everything that happened in between.
and everything that happened below it.
don’t mind that however.
just look into her eyes of fire and ice.
do you know how fire and ice feel?
the same.

and the gears in my mind spin in congruent beat with the melody
that i have seen undressed before my eyes every time i hear it.
ask me,
i know every measure it has.
where it starts, repeats and ends,
and when it rests.
it is my favorite when it rests.
when it gradually becomes louder,
shouting, screaming beautiful words in harmony.
ask me,
i know it!
because i have sang it twenty-five consecutive times.
and that is from only today.
i have a bellyache
from digging deep,
very deep inside to find the voice you demand for,
the voice you demand for when you gesture my voice with your hands to come to you.
ask me,
i know it!
its ******- when the melody beautifully shouts.
rise.
louder.
hold it-
i also know them
the orchestra bands
that harmonizes an orchestral song of loud doubt that digs deep and leaves me without a voice.
dig deep,
dig deeper.
but the only thing that increases is my bellyache, not my voice.
ask me
i know it!
it causes my cold sweaty palms.
the constant shift of my weight as i stand in front of a mass- an ocean
and im drowning,
trying to shout- beautifully- for help.
ask me,
i know it
my inability to defy it,
as much as i want it,
it defines me as failure.
ask me
i know it….
better than I have known anything else.
it frightens me
because it displays confidence, resilience and growth.
it is nothing like me.
it is a tropical storm,
while I am a blizzard forming in the poles.
ask me
i know it.
but don’t ask me to sing,
because it will cause a tornado,
a storm.
sing.

the origin point.
where moral and rational meet.
made from the tree watered with sour wine
made from the sweat of hard work and diligently.
you are both hot and cold
you are both my paradise and war zone
you are both my heart and soul.
bead quilt,
made from different cloths
with different patterns,
different colors- yet made something:
welcoming,
that is held together by both care and rebellion, that was sowed with tender softness from working hands that did not seem capable to love.
my own melting ***,
where my copper and tin could be turned into something more useful,
where lessons came from mistakes,
where tears were just as bittersweet as lemonade,
sometimes more inclined to another extreme.
my first experience with anger,
my first experience with sadness,
my first experience with friendship,
my first experience with reconciliation.
i learned how to love,
how to be happy,
how to be free,
how to forgive,
all between your walls.
a classroom,
a laboratory,
a sanctuary,
a debate,
a court trial,
a playground,
a celebration,
a refuge,  
a memory box.
where seasons are each like a different color lens,
spring if anticipation,
the tulips outside my home are out before the warmth was fully come.
summer of freedom,
butterflies and nights of music, dreams and the stars.
autumn of gratitude,
coffee, come together and walk on bright days that remind us of warm times.
winter of joy,
piles of worries that melt away with the snow, a new start, a new reason to be happy.
i see time pass by,
seated on my couch,
looking out the window.
i wonder if the person who built this place knew that what they were really building was my life.
the countless laughter,
the countless tears,
discoveries,
creations,
and destructions
that I hold dear
all happened here.
you aren’t just my house,
you are home.