stories i can't write about

a clueless playwright;

I sometimes feel like I don't believe what I'm trying to say to myself, in the most important moments of my questionable existance. I'm a child in a field full of adults and they look at me like I should feel, as a matter of fact, guilty for what I'm about to become. I do nothing but look at them with a kind of fear in my eyes, that fear that comes out of nothing and can't be explained. (not even mentioned, daydreamed, tamed. not even as a nightmare.) I'm walking and there's this immense road ahead of me and everyone keeps looking and in fact, there is no one behind me if you're that curious. They say I'm playing, but what do they really know if there's not even a half of a piece of my body who knows what's trully happening. I'm constantly questioning whether I should jump, speak, laugh or cry and surprisingly, I might cry more than actually smile and the mirror I tend to look up to, search or just find lost somewhere doesn't approve of this poor thing of mine. Now let me make you laugh or cry, your choice, hah. Don't you know how much I can take? Do I look like I'm getting tired ... or even old?

You'll want to see me. And you'll also want to scream at me as you usually do. I'll scream too, but just for some mere seconds. Because my energy is an endless spiral and you don't even know how to go down a ladder. Am I simply curious? Am I a little fool? When you see me you think you know me. You think you feel me. I don't feel you, see that?

You don't. I can argue all the time and I won't be right. Or wrong or even situating myself at some point of this segment. Don't step on me, give me a chance. Call me anything but an adult and treat me as I wouldn't be a child. And what do I want? Nothing.

It makes me wonder too.

// Labirinth