What you don’t know is that I go to bed barefooted and when I step on the cold pavement I leave traces. What you fail to understand is that your feet leave the same traces and that they linger there for a few seconds, just like mine do. You don’t know that I’m cold in the morning, just like you are when you’re afraid to leave your warm bed. You don’t know I’m thirsty, that I eat things to stay alive. You don’t know I breathe the way you do, that I have lungs. You don’t know I like the sun and the stars, just like you do when you wake up in the morning and when you go to sleep. You don’t know I can feel warmth just like you do, and you don’t know I use words to say things to others, you don’t know that I like to play games. You don’t know that I think, and that at one point things make perfect sense to me, just like they do for you. You don’t know I sleep, how I sleep, they way I breathe during the night, the things I dream of. You don’t know that words can hurt me, just like they can hurt you. And you don’t know that I can feel the edges of a book, the edges of a table, a chair, and a spoon. You don’t know how come oranges remind me of Christmas. You don’t know I can feel the smell of autumn even before it arrives. You don’t know I fall in love with people I see on the streets, and you don’t know I fall in love with characters I find in books. You don’t know so many things, and still…I wonder whether you wonder there is still a piece of me in the things you already know about me.
Robert Moscaliuc 1 Minute
Published by Robert Moscaliuc
I'm a guy who likes to read and live his life as if the characters from the books he reads are always watching. View all posts by Robert Moscaliuc