There’s a thick layer. I can’t see its beginning nor its end. It’s 32 years long. Never prayed for it. Or dreamt about it. The layer is a wall and I’m behind it. I push. With my two hands. I kick. With both of my feet. No indent. No crack. A gap where I can squeeze myself to the other side. But I go back and sit on my bench and instruct everyday. Effortless. I plant seeds on young hearts and brains.
Violet, roses, lilies. They grow. I sink. Lower and lower. I see light behind the layer with the shape of a quill. It works like a wand. I can do anything with it. I can say everything. I can go everywhere with it. I can be. I can own it anytime I want. But I drop it. I miss my comfortable trap. I know every corner of the black hole. I sneak out again and I see the quill. The wand. And try again. Miracles happen. I don’t believe it. “Go back to your bench.” But this time I can’t drop the quill. It’s stuck in my hand. I want it there. I want to become the quill. The wall looks thinner. And thinner. The tip is the mouth. My mouth. My voice. The wall is disappearing. I can’t stop talking. I can’t stop screaming. Saying. Imagining. Becoming. Being. I have a power. My power. Magic. No wall. There’s a mirror. With my face. No bench. Violets, roses and lilies growing. I rise. My wand on my right hand. Illuminating.
I’m a writer.
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