They think it's our choice, they don't realize that it hurts us by the fact that we don't belong.

You have been seen in several places, at the same time, as if you wanted your perfume to be radiant, but it will not be caught by the hand of a rose, even if one becomes a garden. Those who have traveled after you in my heart said, "There is no limit to the definition of her that breaks the astonishment, because her image stammer, and he did not say a word about her." If I try to write you as if you are reversed: the palm of my hand recedes, and from my line springs flow, and the memory of lakes are formed.

How difficult it was for others, they saw you in the sea, and each in his own way began to draw, at the same time, a wave that competed in its blueness with the wave, until the world became water, and you on its surface create the land. Has no one explained how you branch out in the imagination of the universe, leaving behind images that find their way to lines of paper, canvases, theater stages, and sometimes to forgotten passages in the open, where the autistic cannot touch their solitude without your company?

For the song alludes to what can only be written by your sign, so I write you every time, as if I were all those who saw you in the shrines, on the windowsills, and in lightning blade. As if you were carved in the depths of every soul, and diving, for the sake of your catch. As if I need madness as an accessory, for the talent that is limiting has not been created. As you have not yet sprung from any throat, the fountain of sound that washes the obsessions of lovers with a hoarseness of genius.

I have never seen you, without the world, because I am blind, but I play the thoughts of my stick, which once tapped the edge of your beauty's pavement, and it became green, like a branch. I write you not because of my ingenuity, but because of my hands. I am blind, and your gentle features are my insights.

It’s easy to know who I am when I am at peace with my sadness.
- Juansen Dizon

‍From which wound can we recover our features?

"That is the thing about abandonment issues. You are always on your feet ready to leave."

The more my words are about you, the more my sanity dissipates.
It’s like I’m a foreigner in my own body and I don’t know the person writing to you. Because I wouldn’t use those words would I? My insecurity bashed self wouldn’t let me right?
My heart is not supposed to feel warm with love or whatever they call it these days, right?
My lips are not bound to stretch into a wide smile at the thought of you, right?
Of course I wouldn’t crave your touch like a hungry beast, no I wouldn’t dare!
I’m going insane, doubtless!
It scares me to think that if obsessing over you with my words from afar made me lose my sanity what would having you do to me?
Kill me?

#LiteratureSaturdays
@OurSideOfTheStory

We might not do much. I for myself might not do much but please I will do whatever it takes to be there. Its good to speak it most times. Believe me I am speaking from experience on this. I am saying this because I want y'all to feel this words are from my heart. I wish I could take back time and accept a helping hand or even ask for one when it was time. I regret it deeply.💔 There are lots of things that I would have prevented from happening if I just spoke. So please if any of you out there feel like it's time to speak it please reach out to me or anyone in your life you think will give you one. My handle is @YEABT29. Its always open day and night. I can give you my phone number if you also want to talk on the phone. Just inbox me. I hope you felt the sincerity of this words as my hands are shaking to write them. There is always a way.


Chekhov's mother started most
of her letters to him by saying,
"My Strong son who could
possibly endure any hardship in silence"