They always say that a picture says more then a thousand words. I couldn’t agree more. A picture though, as many may like to believe, does not always have to be painted. Or taken as a snap shot. Glowing on a canvas. Or be showed as image on a screen. No. A picture can also exist only in your mind to see. In your light and through your perspective. Pictures that holds a future, a feeling, a darkness or a all of the above composed into a scenery. A location you keep close to your heart. Sacred moments or haunted recollections. They’re all there. Inside of you. Burning on the inside of your eyelids. Crawling underneath your skin. Pushing and pulling. Screaming for the attention we many times choose to deny it.

I know where they are. Because it’s where I keep mine.
And I also know what I see.
It is a picture. An image. A canvas in my thoughts. A snap shot in my head.
And it says more than a thousand words.
It says everything.

Green grass have never seemed greener. The blue sky almost pouring over us. We know everything. We are free. Untamed adolescences escaping the madness that exists outside this bubble. That exists beyond these years. An open field and we’re lying on it. In the centre of it. Making snow angels without its snow. Without the steaming breaths and padded jackets. Our eyes tearing up from squinting against the heating sun. She always wins. She always holds her gaze the longest. Never turning away. I have closed my eyes a long time ago. I catch a sight of green dots floating. I’m trying to focus on one but it keeps slipping away. I groan. She knows why. She always knows. She always knows I try to grasp them. I never do.

The clouds are on vacation today. Taking a day off. Visiting their loved ones maybe. I don’t know. I rarely do. I can feel the grass underneath my bare feet. Tickling me. Tickling her. But none of us laugh. There is no need to. We both know. She breaks it again. She says that she loves me. Her voice a little more unsteady. Not insecure. But wobbly. I swallow harder. I know she is scared. She knows I am too. But not right now. Not today. And neither is she. I reply. I say the same thing. I’ve been longing to tell her. She’s been longing too.
She’s squeezes my hand. Letting me know that she heard me. That she’s taking it in. That she’s taking it with her.

We’re closing in. We’re waking up. Relentlessly letting time continue its route. And I’m holding my breath. I’m counting the seconds. I’m squeezing again. It’s been hours but I can see it now. The endless beaches. The palm trees and the boardwalks. The ocean and the salt that shimmers inside of it. Telling a story. Revealing the skins it once grazed. Every arm. Every child. Every body.

We all have a story to tell. A picture to show. An image. A canvas in our thoughts. A snap shot in our heads. And it says more than a thousand words.
It says everything.