Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.

Want me to fix you.

"'You know,' he continued reflectively, 'there is something very satisfying about making something, creating it, modelling it on your dream and making that dream become reality. Yes, we all have dreams. That's the easy bit. It's making them come real that's not so easy.'"

— Leslie W.P. Garland, The Golden Tup: A dreadful tale of paradise being cruelly taken by latent evil.


A rare predicament has occurred.

Unlike the usual morning routine of waking up
in sweat from a reoccurring nightmare,
the distraction of the view outside triumphs
over the feelings of worry and anxiety.

It is snowing.

She wakes up in her white night gown abruptly,
gasping for air and reaching out to her night stand.
Sitting there is a glass of water within reach,
but she still misses it after a few tries.

Diversion of attention has spoken for itself.

It is not like any other morning at all.
She hears the wind blowing like a whistle,
but she is blinded by the snow entirely.
All she can see is a white sheet.

Simply, too hard.

As if a strong magnetic force binds the attention
to the beauty of the flawless white snow,
it all appears too captivating to leave.
She finds it too good to be true.

Every thing hurts.

 A continuing struggle to ignore existing pain,
she turns three hundred and sixty degrees
just to be able to take a good look
at what she has around her.


Having any thing there will not make a difference.
Having a lack of things there makes a point.
She hears it loud and sees it clear that
she is not meant to reside in such silent emptiness.

Leaving is always easier.

Packing up and leaving to stay out of trouble,
that always appeals as the better option.
Nobody can keep her tied down anymore,
even if her decisions are made all wrong.

Be broken, not shattered.

The appeal of having someone fix her fades off
almost as quickly as the smile on her face does
when she sees that she has been manipulated by many
into believing that bliss is possible in a place of comfort.

Piecing the fragments of a fantasy.

Not choosing to stick to a religion,
she keeps her mind open all the time.
She reads a lot about miraculous events
in hope that miracles can actually exist in her life.

An out of book experience.

Keeping her preference to walks around areas with rivers,
she somehow constantly arrives back at the same place.
Almost instinctively she walks towards the landmark
no one else will ever admire the way she does.

Float away, and drift back.

Standing tall is a boat placed above commercial towers.
Her idea of an escapade from her reality
is to get to the top of the boat
and gaze down from above.

The height doesn't scare, the fall does.

Refraining from wild thoughts,
it is almost inevitable that her grip tightens
as though the railings will desert her.
The railings feel cold under her palms.

What a daze counting the days.

No matter how cold or stormy it gets,
or how warm or scorching it can be,
she never takes off her sweater
and she never dances alone at home.

Fix it, kiss it, and toss away.

Never once has a broken toy returned to its original condition.
Never once has a broken toy received as much attention
as it initially did from the very first time
that it fell into the arms of a loving owner.

Aged thoughts, antiquated mind.

On a loop in the head go the same fizzling thoughts.
She hasn't gone home in a month and it stays that way.
The solution is right in her face
but she rather catch some shut-eye.



I don't know what to do.
I tried to love you,
I tried to kiss you.
I couldn't heal your wounds.


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