Swinging In The Void
Text by Chiara
Image: Stories on film — “Swinging In The Void”, photograph
How much longer will it take
getting off from this swing
of void and tears.
Falling dead, staring into the pit
or flying to become alive:
these the only choices,
they can’t be denied.
I cannot hide,
hands are getting sweaty,
arms loosening their iron grip,
swinging just to stay immobile
is no longer fit.
What am I
without these chains holding me up,
my skin is raw and unfamiliar,
fingers, they don’t recognize
the textured bumps along the slide.
Courage, they say,
it’s all it takes.
It’s time, your soul sings,
you can’t escape.
Why does freedom seem entering another prison?
And so,
I still stand upon this void,
swinging
one moment in blood
the other in water,
cowardly unable to make a step
one way or another,
too afraid of being too empty,
too afraid of being already tired.
Too afraid of having cut down my tree,
suffocated it in my fist.
But I’ve made a choice long ago,
my heart is already made up,
I know.
I look behind me,
there it is, the trail testament of my strain:
I want to flow into life.
I promise, I won’t go astray.
