Stairs

Crossing paths with an old man with sporty glasses. He seems to see me, but chooses not too look. A common theme, when you don’t really fit in.

I try to remember, when I got used to this. With 15, when my hair was orange and my neck carried a piece sign? Perhaps with 16 when my hair was longer and red/green and I wore darker and darker jeans, leather jackets and underground 20 hole boots, in full punk mode.
Or then with 17, always in black, androgynous, gender fluid, invisible, feeling increasingly unattractive while attracting a lot of unwanted and some wanted attention.
I forgot it when I moved to Japan 3 days before turning 27. Suddenly I felt home, felt like a part of the crowed. Happy and everything was covered in a rosy mist. And as long as no word left my mouth I was right there just a part of everything.

And as the rosy mist turned to dust and everything went grey, I turned invisible. Unseen, unspoken, untouched for long and heart broken. I only existed when I spoke up.
Silent screams, only loud after waking up from a night mare.

Until I decided to be seen. By those who really look. By those who really want to see.
It has created a sphere of wonder who I am, now. 24 years after first understanding an otherness. Who have I become. And who is with me on this trip.

Here and now I am coming back to life. Not for the first time, but the miracle is wonderful every time. Out of my inner darkness comes brightest sunlight, ready to break into colours in the prism of people I like.
And every one who chooses to see, will meet a different version of me. I remain in the shape of water, ready to fill your chosen form. The form that fits what you need. We all get what we want, if we know it or not.
Finally I understand what my pen friend Elisabeth meant when she said: I will only be a vessel, you will need to fill me with meaning.
We always want to be something to somebody. Like a bird flying to the right warmth and coziness. Like the warm embrace of a partner, the passionate kiss of a lover, the shy touch of a new friend.
Tears made by music we enjoy.

The black dress that shapes you confident. People I see. I try to see everything. And the model is trained to look, when the shutter clicks.

Comfortably I swim in warm words we exchange. Talking.

Words like kisses like knives. Cutting deep, pain is sweet.

Moments and people always melt in my memory first, later in poetry.

And whenever we single us out for a moment all hearts overflow. I run into open doors and escape through windows when I notice I took the wrong turn. With apologies.

Who needs patience when life is too short, too filled with little wonders that first crawl, then run, first cry then speak and soon escape parental hopes into their own lives. We will have given them all the love and wisdom we posses. We will have helped them to discover themselves.
Just let us remember they have their own minds, create their own happiness. And we will be left to wonder when the time passed they sat in our laps and smiled and said “I love you” without hesitation.
And we remember long forgotten tears and fights and can be proud: we made them.
Little wonders.

Climbing their own stairs, moving their own bodies, decide to live and love and sin or not. And maybe they will ask us: what did you do with 15? Did you fit in?