Life is beautiful

The other day my mom told me that as she was reading my texts, she started to wonder where she screwed up. What she didn’t see, didn’t understand and what could she have done better as she was raising me. What she could do now that I was an adult. To help, to ease me. So I said “you can keep reading”.

Because writing is therapy, and it would be only halfway completed if no heart was beating at the rhythm of my rhymes. Of all readers, my mom is the one who matters the most. I always say that I write for myself, because it makes me feel better, because I need it. But when I write, I always talk to her. I express my pain, so she can understand my fears, hear my tears, and above all, listen to my laughs.

Because not everything is dark, mama, but it is always more difficult to speak about happiness. It is so delicate, so fragile. It can bon gone so quickly. One lingering sigh, one heavy blow and this tower, built with such difficulty, is nothing but a pile of cards.

But life is beautiful, too. It is about putting an effort in looking at small little details, piecing together something greater. These little elements that can only been seen by those kooky enough to lose their time gazing at these little pieces.

Those who stop on the side of the road to wonder at flower fields.

Those who see animals’ shapes in the clouds, naïve dreamers who still take the time to raise their heads toward the sky and lose their mind in it.

Life is beautiful when we know how to be free.

Life is beautiful, mama, when we know how to look at it for what it is. When we can read the stars and understand the language of the world, when we free ourselves from the manmade inventions to glimpse at the universe’s wonders, the ones forgotten, the ones denied to better admire our own selves.

Life is beautiful, mama, gorgeous as the moon, dazzling as the sun, sweet like your fragrance that reminds me of my childlike wonder, my body laying between the flowers, eyes towards the sky, the mind lost within the clouds.