Winter days are passing by and I’m still here.

Not sure if less hurt, it actually feels as if the measure of my damage is still a quantity I’m unable to translate in any language. Or color. Or sound.

Intensity; that’s the best word to describe my shape. The lows and the highs, the immutable roller coaster I have jumped on at some point in my past and has been giving me free rides ever since.

However, some days seem brighter. The depth of the tunnel might have moved one level up and at times I’m able to scratch the surface and let some fresh air in.

And with the air, other voices and sounds, other eyes and hands also draw near me.

The others.

There are others.

They may also be riding their own demented game in this frenzied theme park we were all thrown into. They may also be able to see me for that short time when their fingers finally reach the surface.

Whichever way it is, I am not alone.

I guess I have never been, but now I’m starting to gain awareness of this.

I am opening my eyes more and allowing myself to be patient and kind with my internal chaotic vehemence that spills outside of me as well.

I am practising being less voiceless.

At least, less than before.

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