THE EXISTANCE OF THE SUN

Deep inside, somewhere in the past... Inside the old boxes where the dark memoris are all put not to open them up again. Or right here, at the present. At the most dominant, the most breezy moment of your life. There is something, I know. Something gloomy. Like a very deep bruise. Yet, no, there is nothing like a scar. The bruise has gone so down that , in sight the skin is so soft, sleek and new. As if that bruise doesn't exist at all. However, within it gives pain with every blue song, every little memory of "before" and with every desparation of the life. It just doesn't take another bruise. It just doesn't let a stronger one in. Even at the happiest moments, it catches the eyes at where they gaze, shows its pain at a stroke. Hide the tears! for nobody to see.

Hold them to hide from yourself too! But what difference does it make? Don't the tears pour inside? Doesn't the chagrin of the past go down the heart, instead of the eyes? They do. I know.

But nobody, ask me nothing. Don't touch nor interrupt. They are sometimes tears of sanctity. Tears poured by being aware of the existance of the love that you will never find again. And... Don't they ever leave? Nobody but nobody can wipe them, the heart? Anyways, who wants them to leave? Let them stay to remind of that existance. Nobody, never wipe them away. Please. Don't erase whats makes me me , don't erase the one I love(d). You also may be leaving afterwards...

Let me stay as the way I am. Don't try to show me the light just because of I don't have the sun in my life. Already, I love life. Not because of I see the rainbow, but because of I had seen the sun.