Friday, 23 November 2012


There is a bluebird in my home that wants to get out.

It turns out that the walls of my new home are full of bluebirds, drawn, motionless, with eyes wide open as if they were terrified and just wanted to get out. But they can't. Now they are mine. It is easy for me to imagine a woman, white I guess, drawing them for her children. It is easy for me to imagine those children clapping and laughing and flapping their arms as birds do. It is easy for me to imagine how the children grew up, and got out, flying away. It is easy for me to imagine also how the birds on the wall, and the white-perfect-mom stayed there, saying goodbye.

I promise not to draw anything on the walls that could make me cry in the future.

The garden is beautiful. There are big trees, it seems like a tale. Nature seems to be under control. But I know in Kenya nothing is under control, even the deaths. I can see how some roots are are advancing stealthily to the house. I can feel how my blood is advancing stealthily, also, to something deep, which I can't describe.

My love writes me love letters, full of beautiful plans over there, in my cold land. Hot chocolate, and scarfs, and smell of fresh pastries leaving the kitchen, and friends who comes to have dinner full of love and youth. I write also to him: My love, I found a beautiful place. The problem is just that it is empty.
To have a perfect life sometimes is not enough if the pretty things are living in the walls, and not in the skin, not in the womb.

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