The view from the highest point of the bridge depicts a clutch of melancholy; it stretches into the mind as a melody. Like a blue cobalt mirror, tainted with dead stars, the horizon is luring me into the abysses of softness. I blow on my pains in its drafts. Air begins to be music, when it sings to my heart. I become this music; the tune I try to **** out of my cold breath, through these silly instruments. Never using my own voice. The keys of the piano are seemingly breaking this river, quietly; In haste followed by a cello which, as a silk voice, caresses my skin of woe. Both share the confusion and tune with one another into my round tears.
I dance, proud, on the notes of suffering, dragging on the sidewalk these astonished, irrelevant voices. No, I won't be careful…no, I'm not suicidal…I don't want to go down.
I would like to turn around and notice those absurd questions asked to me. But I know that when I start shouting, no one will be behind my scary and scared back. I will gaze upon the absence behind me. I will be tempted to make this starting gesture, the conductor's sign to begin: I will close my fists and fall into the masses. In a drumroll of applause.
Suddenly, the silence of my loneliness reached my heart, and as I behold this cobalt blue shower, I climbed down. Thinking, feeling, in me, "Not today".
