Beginning the 18th chapter of my life

I was only 18 when I made a choice of stepping out of my comfort zone, and leaving my home to study in a foreign country. How did I feel? I think you would perceive it better from reading the letters sent to myself, an overflow of feelings. 

Letter one

I feel loose, as if I were a balloon and life within me drained, being tossed aimlessly in the air, vulnerable to the unexpected, exposed to my own sensitivity, being the result of someone's whim to have my existence fled into the pits of reality, screeching for fantasies and and memories that reside in the depths of a dried desire, close to being burnt into the moor of expectations, where I have been drowning as a child, awaiting to be engulfed by my own reasons, which would justify my wish to succumb to my demons, who proved to be the saviors of my absent minded reverie, anchored on the hope of living still. However, as I've grown, I learned how to camouflage with the dirt living inside me, the dust that would paralyze the pristine spots on the milky skins of those who refuse to embrace the mud within them.



Letter two 

 I want to be a ballerina, but my legs are sew to a wall, I'm nothing, but a puppet to my fears, the threads are circling my mind, tossing my neurons into the frontal cortex of my missing pieces, of a melted love that is dripping its idealism within my veins, gaining control over my numb, emotionless body, neglected by the dreamy warmth of being safe inside my mind, acknowledging the ties a voice is sewing in my heart, widening the hole with each asymmetrical distance between the velvet lines that pull together my chest. I am an outside to myself, who pretends to keep it cool, to ignore facing the mirror, the self burning continuously.

After all, fantasy is a detailed reality, and I may never find any escape.