November fell out of my diary like a pressed flower.
It slipped from the pages like a forgotten phone number riddled in a voicemail. It was during this time that I leapt through boulders childlike and uncanny, across the desert and buried deep into decorative passageways. Still, the most rooted moments were the journeys through my own multifaceted deliria, an interview of myself by myself and to myself.
I fell in love quite a bit, with quite a bit. That’s if we’re measuring in milestones and not in teaspoons. I stopped at the zebra crossings like it was second nature and held up my ‘for sale’ sign with pride and abundance, striking smiles as if it were desirable to others. Decades of disposing myself into the wretched bins of agony, I came from the ashes and tipped my tin hat to the bystanders. Enacted in me a change of being and I came to one simple formula that is: Lathering your wounds in salt and lime will not help. Not at all.
So I’ve decided to break my own arm and let it heal with the lucrative touch of others, to mend my stitching with the overflowing amount of joy I witness on a school playground. People often fumble side by side and beg you to partake in their sonder activities, so perhaps instead of getting lost in the darkness, I will furnish a wealth of coloured joy.
HALEY VULETA
Rangiora, NZ
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