"What shall I bestow upon you when I do not own anything but my words?"

Today I spent all afternoon with my parents, my sister and her daughters. Yes, I am very attached to my family and I cherish close relations with them. We share our time, our good and bad moments, our actuality and our past  But, today a strange moment happen and I was not prepared for it. A moment of travelling through the time; going a decade in reverse. My mom brought out a sheet of paper after the lunch. It was a song I wrote to her 10 years ago for her birthday and she wanted to share it with my 10 years old niece. 

The song was written by hand on a blank sheet of paper from notebook. 

I do not remember writing  process, neither poem's existence. I do not remember my mother reaction when I gave her a peace of my soul written down with my left handed, difficult for reading writing style. I do not recall particularly that birthday of hers, except the fact that it was November 18th, 2005. I was in a high school back then. As any teenager, I was more focused on my inner world rather then on my reality. To be honest, in that time, books were my reality; most likely depression as well, even though I never saw it to be an issue when I was living my episodes or periods. 

She asked me to read it to my niece, because no one can read my handwriting; I always wrote exclusively for myself and I never made a copies of my work. I remember the moment when 4 professors tried to read my final essay at the high school, because they founded my handwriting to be very complex. Eventually, they understood that  the context I wrote was better then expected, so I was awarded with the higher recognition - to be naturally gifted future writer. The same belief followed me through the collage, but my highly developed self-criticism put a shadow on my possibly bright future of becoming a writer; I would call it a curse rather than a natural gift, but regardless how is marked, living with it and despite it is the only way which remains. 

But when I took this sheet of paper, when I saw my handwriting, when I looked at personal note addressed to my mother, I simply started to cry without any control. I read it for myself, choking in my spontaneous tears, trying to read it fast, so I can take some air; trying to get down from the roller-coaster of my constantly present melancholy, with the same intensity even after a decade, trying to tame this overwhelming sorrow within me. 

So, I found some strength left to read it out loud to my niece, whom hugged me when she spot the tears in my eyes. So, I am reading and my hands are shaking, my soul is breaking and my heart is growing in the same moment. It is ode to my mother and I do not want to sound pretentious, but with the decade of distance, I can say it is well written; deeply melancholic and honest poem. 

And I am reading it so everyone can hear me. My mother cries too. Why do you think I end up to be so emotional? It is a personal heritage from her and my full of love childhood. 

The one verse is repeating in a good manner and it sounds something like "What shall I bestow upon you when I do not own anything but my words?"

While reading it, I start to understand that a lot of things happen within 10 years, but nothing what matters has ever changed. 

Beyond the words

We all felt at least once that would be good to be anonymous for a moment. Some of us tried to escape from everyday life by making some big decisions over night and moving to some foreigner country. The brave ones decide to follow their dreams and to live them. Others tried to seek for their hidden stash in their imagination or in the physical transformation. It sounds exacting to change a style, a gender, a job, a partner or a city. But what about the situation when you cannot escape? When you are prisoner of your body, of your mind and of your environment? What about those people who cannot go anywhere because they are trapped in this world which does not understands them? There is a lot of them, but they cannot related to each others. Majority is not comfort for them; they do not seek for company. These individuals are living in parallel universes. This life is trivial for them. What is behind the surface is what instigates them. These introverts are self-sufficient.To those whom decided to proceed with reading, be aware of hidden madness and deep confusion between the lines. Be aware that only believers can see within themselves. The biggest truths we do not speak, we feel them and we wrap them in shiny paper made of words. Words are like a sea shells; they cherish and hide the meanings made of your experience, longings and beliefs. I adore and despise the words in the same time. From the beginning the words had the meaning beyond, and for me they are like endless movements in my mind and in my soul. I dig worlds with words. Now I am hopelessly trying to understand the absence of words, trying to communicate without them, trying to enter the world where words does not have a meaning, only the echo.  I am longing to understand how to express all the meanings I learned until now without using the language. I need to enter one world which fascinates me; I want to break free and to understand wordless world of my daughter. In the same time, I am trying to keep my world made of words open for her. The words cannot be simplified due to existence of layers added through someones experience. We are constantly adding the meanings to the words, we fill them with ourselves. First, we learn words with our mind, second, we experience the meaning of words and only then we can claim we understand. So, I decided to maintain writing on English, which is not my mother language. I am trying to break a language barrier in terms of understanding. I have to find a way to approach to my dearest person in entire universe; she does not care for words, she only feels what is beyond them, while I am feeling through the words. I remain incapable to express my feelings in the way she finds to be understandable. She lives in her bubble called Autism Spectrum Disorder and this is the beginning of the long term journey.