Överbelastad
Av: Fatima Drott Mina tankar spiller över. Intrycken var för många. Glömt vad lugn är. Drunknar i vad jag borde gjort. Tvivlar på dagens alla val. Vad jag än gör, känns det som om inget blir rätt. Förstår inte varför. Objektivt existerar inga fel. Endast i mitt huvud är allt, jag gjort, misslyckanden. Sanningen är irrelevant, när medvetandet envisas med att endast se, det värsta.
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Stronger than hope
By: Fatima Drott I was made out of children’s last tears. Children whose hearts had to grow hard. Some as young as two years. Most tend to never know the feeling of safety. Instead, they learn how to hide. Because they know the world is a dangerous place. The lucky ones tend to find me. Or at least a part of what I am. Imagination or creativity tend to be my name. As I have made myself known, as the friend no one else can see. Know many dark secrets, hidden in depths, many fear to tread. But children who had to grow up to early, tend to reach me, and with my help, use the worlds darkness, to make lights stronger than hope. Fel prioritering
Av: Fatima Drott Vet inte vem jag är, samtidigt som min identitet, är vad jag förstår bäst av allt. Basen jag begriper resten av världen igenom, är ständigt mitt livs perspektiv. Håller därför hårt i det lilla jag förstår. Kunskaper hårt förvärvade, är mina dyraste skatter. Pärlor i min livs väv är de. Arbetet jag lägger hela min själ i, är ett evighetsarbete, eller åtminstone ett livsprojekt. Så försök inte ta mig ifrån mitt livs syfte. Att äta och sova kan inte vara viktigare. De är endast bagateller, och stulen tid, från vad jag hävdar är viktigare, än allt annat. Låt mig glömma bort att leva, för fasaden jag planerar ge i arv till världen. Skatten som inte kommer kunna bli uppskattad, tills den nästintill glömts bort. DNA och ära
Av: Fatima Drott Om jag förlorar min ära, då förlorar jag mig själv. Vet det med samma säkerhet, som blodet flyter i mina ådror. Bundit min identitet till min ära, mer säkert än mitt DNA styr vem jag är. Spelar ingen roll om andra hävdar att minst hälften av vår personlighet bestäms utav vårt DNA. Ty jag tror på den fria viljan, och därmed makten jag har, när det kommer till vem jag vill vara. Bortglömt
Av: Fatima Drott Glömde bort jaget, för gemenskap, som var falsk. Glömde bort sanningen, för acceptans, bland andra. Glömde bort världen, för lånade drömmar, som aldrig var mina. House of memories
By: Fatima Drott I stand in front of my old childhood home. Even if it was long ago, just walking through the blue main door awakens parts I thought was dead inside of me. The walls are still full of photographs of meaningless poses, just to pretend the people within them matters. Can see myself in some of them, together with my siblings. Everything in this hall is a facade, making me cold within. A pretence for everyone, not living behind its closed door. Still, I have to be here, going through what has survived my mother’s dementia. Her crazy ideas I can see have ruined locked cabinets. Not that mom is all that has fallen here. Wallpaper is peeling like ice when spring comes knocking. Breaking apart as if the cold embrace, my siblings and I knew, is finally letting us free from mothers uncaring hands. Walk through the dust, to reach the room I once upon a time shared with my sister. Only the green flowery wallpaper is still the same. All the furniture has been exchanged to make a dining room, instead. Don’t know if there exists a room type more useless. As I continue to look around the house, it feels as if mother systematically worked away the reminder of her three children, except for the meaningless photos. Claiming she cared about us. That she saw us as more than a way to keep our father’s positive attention. His office still stands, as it was when he lived, except for the dust of course. At least that was what I thought, before I looked closer. Don’t know exactly what makes the wood clad room feel like a shrine. Maybe it is the candles and almost altar like quality of what’s on the dark wooden desk. Remember hiding beneath it when I wanted to feel safe, as a child. Don’t really know why mom never truly searched this room. Expect it has to do with the pedestal she always put our father on. It was as if she was incapable to care for more than one individual. Neither my brother, sister nor I could compare. Learned early that she saw us as competition for our father’s attention. Not that dad couldn’t care for all four of us. Even if none of us children believed mother was capable of understanding that truth. Take a moment to sit in the soft sofa standing against the wall, almost falling into the cushions. Remember a time when me and my siblings used to squeeze together here, just because we could, to listen to dad telling stories. This was our true refuge. A room mother never tainted, with her uncaring way. Would prefer to stay, but I still have to look around. Next, I go to my brother’s old room. Apparently made into a walk-in closet, for my mother. Believe everything we siblings want, will be from dad’s office, is my thought, as I leave the house, into the fresh spring air, smelling of freedom, flowers, and rain. |
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