Why me,why now? I have no clue.

Am I a hairdresser who writes? Why? I feel that I am trespassing on holy grounds. I shouldn’t be here. A heretic. Something stung my soul and has thrown sweet poison on the inside. It holds me as a prisoner. A tight grip. My brain is haunted. My whole existence on fire. It feels like the only way out of the matrix. I can’t sing well or paint. But I’m fooling myself with an attempt on writing. And I have the nerve to share it publicly. A voice inside my head reminds me of the old movie from the 90s «white men can’t jump» and I’m thinking..»old hairdresser can’t write». So the more I resist the urge to do it, the more it wants to happen. I can’t help it but write. It’s a «cleansing» process. It feels like «decluttering the blocks» in my head. An expansion..an explosion..of thoughts.

Excuse me dear reader whoever you are, wherever you may be. I give haircuts to people with love, but this is also the same. I don’t want to offend or brag about anything. I am an observer who can no longer keep the results of his ongoing experience go to waste. I am broadcasting my feelings any way I can. This is my way. A warrior must choose her weapons. I am choosing this. I have no titles. I found a pen and later a keyboard and started fooling around with them. I will attempt to write. It feels unsure. Like the birds when they’re young learning to fly. They can either crash or reach the sun. Heretic. How do you dare.. I got nothing to lose.. I am mortal.