WORDS FOR A COLOR

I cannot find words to define the color of those little round doors through which I would jump to leave this dimension. I have serial killer tendencies, to kill the pain, to kill boredom, this time to kill in order to overcome a static condition of insect trapped in amber, because yes, sometimes love also must be killed, strangled, in order to keep sanity. I dreamed of you last week, not sure how you sneaked in and pulled me out from my safety box. The way things are, the tide, the miraculous sand and a symbolic moon crowning the scene, made almost credible the story of the two crabs that, one walking forward while the other rolling backwards following natural impulses, would meet. This is a spit with an attached silencer, it could be dangerous, poisonous, even lethal if it would be shouted unmasked, careless uttered. I am holding a kind of anesthetic dart with which I self-inflict a relentless stabbing in my gazelle heart, so I remember to forget.  I don’t need affection to be showed, tact will take form only by taking prudential distance. A knot is shaping my throat, waiting for the closing door to dissolve, as it never happened, as if personal realms were interlaced but never coincidental. I am full of grace, I renounce without the need of wearing my old martyr dress, I am full of light, the one that shines while the world sleeps and nobody knows. Aaaah.. a full ballroom and I only could look at myself reflected in the crystalline impossibility (because out challenges and dares is what the walls of my lucidity are made of). In a perfect world this braided bunch, this fringe positioning would not have had a reason to begin, so if that is it... what is the reason behind me giving up and then being rescued to be re-trapped? I don’t believe that the bridges that I burnt are bringing me back home because that is what is meant to be, to walk on a mined field because that is the needed lesson to be learnt. The fury is not an option neither am I, from the clearest to the loudest my eyes would never lie; it is resignation what I painted as eye-liner wings calling out for exclusivity. That I can sew my lips is not unknown torture for the angels watching over me to see, and if so, can i make an intricate embroidered muzzle out of desperate stitches? That transformed frustration will be pictured and framed, because this is something worthy of being immortalized for the generations to come, as a example, or simply as a mirror in which get drown when the self pity won't be enough.  May my sorrows turn into joys by the certainty of what re-evaluation will make me apprehend: that there is a reason for that graceful letting go of the things that appalling are not here as a goal but merely as a mean. So be it. B_Nour