I write spontaneous letters to myself.
To ladies and children.
I do not send them to men of the world.
To sportsmen.
To soldiers of fortune.
Merchants.
Once I wanted to be a soldier,
to be brave, fight for a cause,
protect and command.
Then I wanted to be an actor
and play out all the roles
life could not give me.
And then a priest or prophet,
though that lasted only a moment.
And the letters accumulated,
were thrown away,
forgotten,
and I returned to where I began,
to the mother soul,
to the child,
to the innocence of nature.
To life and death.
To bells ringing in the heart.
To tears appearing out of nowhere.
To dancing.
To following comets in the sky.
To waking up and letting the world
introduce itself differently every day.
And then writing a letter,
a poem,
a kiss put on paper.
Not to be read,
but to acknowledge how much
life is worth its moments,
and owning things is giving
everything away,
to make room inside,
for more,
ladies and children first.