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I wish I could write. Like grown-ups do, the ones well up in the art of writing. I wish I could write beautifully and showing trust in my words, like some people I know do. You see, I still hopelessly believe in the power of words and of what they are able to awaken inside of us. I wish I could render the incredible sensation of the butterflies in my stomach the first time I saw those eyes in a dark, half empty bar. I wish I could make you feel the salty taste of the tears running down my cheeks in a terrible flood of sadness and heartbreak.

Will I be able to make you feel and stir, sigh and smile, imagine and dream?

I wish I could slice up love into a zillion tiny pieces. Study them under a microscope, like a certified scientist and then write a paper about it. I’d spread my newfound wisdom with anybody willing to listen. And oh, how everybody would hold their breaths at the end of each page, hungry for the next illuminating word, the next revealing page and the next enlightening paragraph. A fool’s dream!

I wish I could understand how my heart works, why it ticks instead of tocking when hearing you speak English. And I wish I could be the bearer of peace between my reason and my heart. They would hale me as the one who managed to reconcile stubborn thoughts winding in endless circles with obstinate feelings not giving up on lost causes. It’s all madness, I tell you!

I’ve found myself in writing. I’m still searching for pieces of the puzzle, but at my core, I am words. They have failed me countless times, but I still trust in them.

It’s been pointed out to me that I tend to sacralise words. In a world that holds little as sacred anymore, this is a sure-fire way of knowingly inflicting pain on yourself. Words are my weapon and my friends, my shield and my comfort. They are perfectly sacred, even if the intentions behind them are far from it. I wish I could write.

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