There was a lot of things to say about them. They hated it when people talked about them. They hated that all eyes were on them. They also had that mania, very particular to them which made their charm, that bad habit to blush and smile at the same time. They also had that habit to hide their prominent poppies cheekbones with their hand. Yet, behind this mask, we could see their smile. They were beautiful, I had to admit it. No one could deny such a thing. Because if the looks laid on them, it was not for judging them, I knew it and even if they did not want to belive it, I also knew that they were aware of such a thing. On the contrary, the eyes on them shone with admiration, jealousy and envy. I could see in those eyes the beauty, the charm, the magic that I saw with my own eyes. Maybe they could not see it and they were unconscious of it, and even if they could see it in my eyes, they never really believed me. But it did not matter, because they did not need to believe that they were special in this ordinary world. They did not need to think that everyone would have thrown themsleves at their feet if they had dared to bat an eye. They did not know anything about all of this and they were fine with that. All those things made them someone special and yet, that someone was broken. Because now, I was able to say it, the admiration never made everything. It destroyed most of the time.

So people said of them that they were too discreet, too shy, too quite. However, they had a lot to say, but nobody took time to listen to them. Because they had this gift so particular to make a boring story interesting. They had this talent with the words that a few persons had. They had this connection with words that no one could understand, as if, since their birth, they were fallen into a world full of books. They had a lot of things to say, and most of them were not joyful and I knew that it hurt them, and I would have loved that people understand it, because even if the pain burnt their heart, behind that, they had beautiful things to tell.

People also said that they were a dreamer. Perhaps a bit too much and that they went to far away from the reality. But people did not know that it was their escape from this cruel world. People did not know that the dream gave them all the possibilities that they had forgotten. All the chances in which they no longer believed. All the hope that the reality could not give them anymore. People did not want to see what they saw in this strange world of dreams. They used to say that the persons unable to dream, to see what was not possible to see, were stuck in a monotonus and frozen reality. They used to say, to shout even, that those people would never know what it was to have their own world. Because they loved changing the world. They loved inventing new worlds, new languages and revisiting the most famous stories. Yes, people called them a child. But they did not care about it, because they were not. They just had realized that if they stayed one more second in this black and white world they would lose all perception of colors and I knew that they would refuse to make such a thing happen.

People said that they were too expressive, too impulsive. That they did not know to control themself and that they looked like a wild dog which needed a recovery. People were wrong. Yes, they had a bad temper, but their heart was as pure as a crystalline water. Yes, they became enraged as when the storm ravaged everything in its path. Yes, they had many flaws, but it nerver equalized with their qualities.

Those people said a lot of things about them without making the effort to know and to hear them. Those people admired them as much as they hated them. Those people despised and envied them. Those people were all the same in their eyes and for me they were all pathetic not to see what I saw. They were pathetic to turn a blind eye to a creature which illuminated their lives when its walked in front of them. They were pathetic because they thought time went by fast while it was they who speeded it up. They were pathetic because if they had taken time to listen, they would have heard the muffled cries that I've been hearing.

They were special as they could be ordinary. They never believed what I told them. They always told me that all was fake and that they were boring as hell. I could assure them again and again how amazing they were, it never changed anything. It did not change anything because they had never wanted to see what they really were. What they could be. What they could do. They had never believed in their abilities, dreams, desires, inner strength, but especially in their fate. They despised, belittled themself, and even if it had become daily, tiring and very pathetic from them, they never complained about it, because they knew it was their fight and only theirs.

Not a lot of people could see what I saw in them. They thought that I saw nothing, but they were wrong. I saw everything. All their small manias, all their OCDs, all these mimics. They could not hide anything from me, although they did it anyway.

They were wonderful and I did not say it because I had developed feelings for them or because they became someone very special and important to my heart. No, I did not say it for that.

They could be the exact opposite of what they were for lots of people, but even behind their facets, they was a sociable, nice and very generous person who cared about everything. Many people loved them for their qualities. And they were remarkable. A magnificient mixture between the black and the white, between the Yin and the Yang, between light and darkness. All about them was a perfect mixture, the mixture that created a mysterious and nevertheless dazzling shade.

People accepted them or did not accepted them, it was not a big deal, because they were exactly the same. If they did not like someone then they did not care, but in contrast, if they loved someone, they would have been able to die for them.

I could talk about them over and over and say how great they were, but why would I do such a thing while I have a whole story to finish? Why to tell again and again what I liked about them when I was sure to beat about the bush?

There were a multitude of ways to talk about them. A multitude of things to tell about who they were. A multitude of memories that remained in memory, of which they were the hero. A multitude of scars of which they had caused. But love was much stronger than pain. Everything they were, gave me a balance that I did not want to lose for anything in the world.

They were who they were and I wished they knew how unordinary they were.

We were so in the dark, in the fact that only our poor lives mattered and that of others were equal to a pea in the midst of many others. We were so selfish, that we only worried about ourselves. It was always: me, myself and I, I know this, I do that, etc. Life was so insignifiant, that we loved provoking it, widening it, enlarging it, stretching it like a vulgar gum. It was so underrated that even death was a joke.

Then when came the time to share our life, to separate the gum or to cut it into two pieces, we were lost, because suddenly this carefreeness, this selfishness were transformed into fears and doubts and surprise! we became carrots in the middle of peas. To go back was impossible. To make sure to deny such a reality was to bury our head into the sand, what means that we could be in denial the time we wanted, the truth will always appear at the daylight, even if we had the best hiding place ever.

We never knew what was a history until ours become one. One day they are going to ask me why it was important to me to write this history, I do not think I will get the answer someday. There was no perfect answer to explain why this or that person had decided to write their own history. In my case, I did not think that it was up to me. If today I had decided to write down my words, my thoughts, my fears and my joys, it was certainly not only for myself, for my esteem or the ignorance that I was expressing to life. No, far from that. If I decided to open up, to write all day and all night, until my fingers become red of blood and that my eyes close by themselves, by letting my mind keep working, it was certainly not only for myself. On this day, whether that it was yerterday, today or tomorrow, I could not answer such a question and know whether it would be the truth or not. Maybe I would respond you that it was just for fun and that everything was only a fiction, or that it was an alternative reality where disease and desire were people, or again this was a true story, with real facts. Everything could be just a lie or a truth, but if I myself did not know what it was, what should you think? What should you believe? There was no good or bad answer to that. You will only need to follow your heart and not your instinct of curiosity.

If they asked me why I had decided to write this history, then I would probably answer them that they were the eye of a hidden world.

*

Empty

I do not know what is wrong with me. One day I will be fine, the next day I will not. There is nothing in this lifetime which is good. Nothing is worth living for or simply to look at. I only am an emtpy body, walking in the street without knowing where I am actually going. I am turning again and again without knowing wich way to take. It is like if I was a zombie or a robot. I am here, alone, on a deserted road, walking, trying to move on, but my feet are rooted to the spot, preventing me to go futher.

In this empty body, I do not feel anything. I feel like I am already dead. Like if my life had no colors, no odors, no joy. And maybe this is the truth, because all this life is just a dream that I create. And if that's true, I am just like everyone else: I am nothing. I am not special, ordinary, amazing. We all are the same, because we live the same way. Perhaps this is the real reality. Maybe the one that we see is not the one that we imagine. All of this makes no sense, but who cares? I am just an empty body after all and my words are worthless.

My mind is not a mind. A big and wide space without a light. Everyting is just darkness inside that I can barely say to you what really happens up there. There is no thoughts. In my heart, my love, my pain, my fears, all what makes me is gone. Literally: I feel nothing at all. It is sad, isn't it? To stand in front of the wall, knowing how you feel and to not be able to walk along this difficult path, because you know that this empty hole is too painful and if you manage to go through that bad period you do not know what is going to happen next. Happiness or grief will welcome you. Which one? I have no idea, but it is a risk to take. The risk to know the truth.

It does not matter after all, because who cares about an empty body? Who cares about what I am going through right now? Who cares about how I feel? Who cares that I am only a goddamn lost soul?

If I cannot put myself back on my feet or just to help myself by my own ways, who would do that? Certainly nobody. Anyway, that is okay, because I am who I am and I am fine, even in the darkest day of my life or the brightest one. No matter what happens, I am only a robot with no emotions and no thoughts. Just like a computer.

                                                                                        .   .   .