He says this is a true story and that he remembers everything.
Her True Story:

She was bleeding in his arms. She was bleeding and they were red. She cried and he sat there helpless; paralyzed.

“You are beautiful and I may not love you but you are here and will always be.”

“You’re going now?”

She couldn’t reply, her blood a sea drowning all realities and words and feelings. But she uttered at the end: “Yes, and I will be waiting for you.”

She departed. His tears permeated her blood and the ocean of something they didn’t know overflowed and it was not a tragedy.

He embraced her body and her red wings. She was not there.
He says this is a true story and that he remembers everything. He still lives by the red ocean and wonders if red skies ever dance.


I can almost see it. 

You’re staying in bed, somebody let you down again. The world seems far too big, far too cruel, and you ache in places you never even knew existed. It aches to remember, it aches to breathe. 

You think of yourself as spoiling fruit, too ugly to even be seen in white light. You hide underneath the covers, chasing the shadows of people who didn’t have the heart to love you anymore. You lose yourself somewhere in the middle of the chaos in your head, your hands burning from all the scratching at the edges and the clawing at the walls. Your feet are tired from spending so much time running away from them when you always end up running into their open arms. 

Your voice is a drowning siren, I can see your rage turning red. I can see the coldness biting deep into your chest, I can see you trying to think of anything else but the way you feel. 

Counting the shapeless figures on the ceiling. Pushing the earphones a little closer. Making the music go louder and the car speed faster. Letting the numbness take over. But still, you remember every nuance of every word of every time. You measure time in bursts of clarity that come way too scarcely. You measure it in whispers, in words, in the distance between two sounds. It stretches, and it shrinks, and it takes you back to places that make it harder to want to wake up in the morning. 

But let me tell you just this: I’m here now. I’m braver than your loneliness, and I’m stronger than the tides that pull at your heart.

We can jump off buildings together and turn into soaring birds on our way down. I will make you so full of light, you would forget where you buried your darkness. I will love you so hard, it will feel like anchors opening up our hearts from the inside out, and I wouldn’t mind. I’ll tear your old self from its chains and hinges, and I will love you all the way into finding a brand new heart. 

I will teach you never to hold your breath unless you plan on letting it out, and how there always is the good kind of breathless. I will teach you that it’s okay if someone you love undid your veins with a seam ripper or took a blade to your almost-but-never-quite-healed wounds, I’ll have the patience to stitch them back up no matter how tired I get of holding the needles. I will be new stitches to all of your old wounds. 

You know I’m not the “hold your hands when they’re quivering kind of person”, and I’m not the “let you cry on my shoulders” one either. But I could try to be the person who makes you laugh so hard, you hardly remember the tears striking your cheeks. I can be the person who makes you forget to remember that you’re still hurting. 

I’ll be your armor, if they come with their hurtful words and their chainsaw memories to get you, they’ll have to cut me down too before they get anywhere near you. It will ache anyway. I know that. But if the aches turn into open cuts and broken bones, I will heal you. 

So let the noose of rope find its way around your neck, let the concrete ground embrace your falling body, let the venom course through your blood and the razors cut into your skin. 
I will save you every time.


You put it in your mouth and you light it up. It burns. And you burn.

You inhale it devouringly. You feel the nicotine infiltrating your bloodstream and you feel your hunger for it getting satisfied. You feel the smoke filling up your lungs, and you hold it inside for a while so your demons can take their share too. They like it. It keeps them still and it keeps them quiet. They asked you to do it more often last time you sat together and talked, last time you were bargaining for your sanity.

Enough, you decide.

You exhale, feeling every ounce of pain, every burden, every shred of insanity and every horrid creature inside you blending with the smoke and escaping with it. Reposefulness. But it’s an illusion; an illusion of momentary salvation you’re addicted to. What’s inside of you remains inside of you. The smoke particles diffuse through the air forming a hazy painting composed of faces; faces of people you miss and faces of people you would like to meet, faces that taunt you and faces that beckon to you in vain. You see your madness manifested in a puff of smoke.

You smoked too much, your body is numbing and you can’t feel your limbs. You don’t care, because what good are your limbs if not for entwining with theirs?

You light another one.


Grab a pen and a piece of paper, print down your victory in ink. 
There you have it, your verbal proof. Show it off to yourself.
Cut it in pieces and throw it in the air. 
Burn it to ashes. 
Fold it under your pillow. 
A memento of glory.
Your glory. 

Applaud your sentiment of pride. 

You’ve fought a fair battle. 
You’re done with the ache, no more ache. No more distress. 
The battle is over.
Tears are shed. Dried out.
Your wounds are evidence. 
The ruins are there to testify.

"I really don’t want to fight this battle anymore."

Rest. You’re worn-out. 
You’ve been through a lot.
Come here, lay down. 

Look back. It’s all there.
You’re past it all. 
Don’t worry, you made it. you did it.
You’re safe.
Look, it’s back there. 
It’s all over, it’s ok. 

Everything’s ok now. 


Have you ever tried to think about the majesty of that portal - the one you have in your mind - that keeps you striving and thriving?

It is the anticipation for a better tomorrow, a voice echoing in your ears: “Just one last push,” when you are about to succumb.

It’s your lucid dream; a world of your own creation, exquisitely tailored to you.

As astronomers look up to the sky to observe celestial phenomena and discover new stars,

You dive into your portal when reality is just not enough for you,

When it’s not quenching your thirst.

You see things so vividly that it makes your heart beat as if with the pretense of escaping your chest. You smile and feel a zephyr untainting your soul, refreshing your being.

Being loved back, or restoring old love, living a bohemian week in Paris, or a gypsy dance in Colombia.

Or maybe fighting for a noble cause.

The thing is, everybody has his or her own list of things. And although the portal never carries a promise, you are reaching out

and in this simple quest lies your life

Some of the things turn into reality, others won’t

and in this simple fact lies a great wisdom.