Finger tips

Always feeling things, trying to define them, holding them in my palms,
feeling their edges with my eyes closed because maybe they would tell me
something about life, maybe I would feel life as I hold them. It is
said that if I was capable of understanding myself I would understand
life, I would be able to explain why I woke up one morning and found
myself here in a state they called existence so now I am trying to live
with myself, trying to listen to all these voices that seem to be
talking at the same time, telling me to wear all colors of the spectrum,
bake brownies every night and love coffee, a big smile won’t hurt but a
little one will do. “Faith is it” the voices say, faith in anything,
the kind that has you waking up at dawn because that’s the only way
you’ll know you’re alive, the kind that tells you to travel the world,
but you must believe, it doesn’t matter what you believe in as long as
you believe, you’ll be okay. As long as you keep painting, as long as
you get goose bumps looking at the sky, as long as you’re vulnerable and
forgetful and loud you’ll stay alive as long as you’re capable of
crying, capable of feeling the edges, capable of finding life in a cup
of tropical tea as you write to yourself. Capable of loving those who
left, forgetting why they left and where they went. Stay fragile, close
your eyes and listen to life, synchronize with it, you’re part of it,
learn how to flow like it does, feel those edges once more with your
finger tips, keep feeling them…