I find comfort in paragraphs,
in believing my words can come across
someone else’s eyes and heal.
And who couldn’t,
I keep writing all my discomforts
that somehow comfort strangers,
believing either we are all lunatics
or neither one of us,
a thought can grow a set of wings
and fly away to forgotten,
but when we write it
it becomes a story, real or not
powerful enough to catch a tear,
laughter or sadness,
that might even heal.
Isn’t this what us lunatics call “magic”?
experiencing what we haven’t lived,
only art can do that.