so what if

So what if I lose everything,
I lose my love, my home
What if my blood drains out and I forget who I was or
where I came from
What if I lose all preciousness and all the sublime
in a hit of a pipe of under a cloudy low sky?
What if I’m asked where did I come from or even tricker,
what if I’m asked who I was before
and what if I’m told I’m not human no more
what else can I be? Can I choose or do they tell me?
Does it matter what kind of a being I am? What I eat, whom I know
what language I speak?
What if there’s nothing to hold on to? What if there’s no death,
I can’t even die!
What if I don’t have a face or a mask to cover my skull?
Does that still count as being alive?

xJoVM1512699128

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Glaucoma

There are those who shout loud for attention, through tantrums

and tears

and tearing

and punching

and cutting

and shooting

and blaming

by using words which they can not, themselves, forget.

 

There are those who tried all those above

even some accidental kills

of innocent souls

and then they closed

inside

forever

quiet

no words

no tears

no blame

just silence.

 

And when these two meet,

Loudness and Silence free2e

hoping maybe maybe

they could become peace.

Being Earth

 

12.VIII.2014

– to be read in mind –

To try is not

the trying

To want is not

the wanting

To feel is not

the feeling

to live is not

the living

to love is not

the loving

if one is not

the doing.

To choose is

to be chosen

for a moment

to desire.

To see is

to be seen

for a moment

being fire.

To hear

is to be heard

for a moment

to rebirth.

To know is

to be known

for a moment

being Earth.

DateEarthPhoto

Sacriprice

17.VI.2014

– to be read in mind –

Indeed, it seemed a bit

untrue

that when there’s One, there must be

Two.

It’s not the number, I’m afraid

or any of the prices that are paid

I’m more incline to see

the real

that when there’s One, the Twos

are near.

While being trapped inside a storm

One can adjust

Two thinks it won’t.

And when there is a line to cross

One dries his fruits

the Two dries love.

 

Some say it is a sacrifice…

some say…the fair(Y)est price

no matter which,

one only’s true

the sacriprice of One is Two.

the born

– to be read in mind –

The me I know

I am seeking through

all those around me

and I do

what they don’t know

of what is true

while I’m myself,

I’m also you.

 

Try see how fingers

come across

the sheets of yellows and

of course

you feel the touch

and so do I

because we’re equal

in the eye.

 

When I delay some words in pause

you seek to find somewhere

my thoughts

because you feel

and so do I

that we are both beneath

one sky.

 

And may there be another times

another stories, other lives

but here

where trees bloom as they grow

we are the same

as we were born.

we are still

– to be read in mind –

You tell me there’s no limit

you tell me there’s no life

you tell me there’s no nothing

and yet,

you die inside…

 

after my every leave

after my every slap

after my every try

to make you understand

that

 

when there is no limit

while there is no life

where there is no nothing

we are still alive.

use your imagination

 

 

Youme

– to be read in mind –

 

 

I trust in what I hear,

but I don’t trust your words

For they do not appear

As proof you being close.

 

I wonder if between

the me I knew and know

is something of a line

or none of the above.

 

With you I wish to sit

on mother’s lap before…

we hide between the sheets

You and me…no more.

Let me Let you Go

– to be read in mind –

I trust you understand, my dear friend,

that I can take away,

the everything you gave

me…as pretend

to win my heart

and play.

 

Advise you I shall not

on how to leave my sight

I only can retell the stories

I’ve been told.

 

That once we did believe

that love can save a soul

that writing has no clues

except the once untold.

That daring has a share

in what has yet to come

and caring a despair

is nothing but a drug.

 

And after all these drops

of ticking time in vain

I trust you, my dear friend,

to leave beside your shame.

Try find me less than nice

try find me even more

try teach me what does last

try let me let you go.

In!-!ours

– to be read in mind –

They grew quite old

after a while

short while, but

not too short.

They spoke of many

wild, sweet things

while slowly understanding

the space that was between.

They covered ears with pillows

they screamed until they cracked

balloons of small illusions,

none of them really fake.

And so…while deeply hoping

for something greater to be born

they did not even glitter…and yet

the greatness was there born.

Some, can stand close forever

Some, can not stand at all

but what in all this matters

is that none of them truly falls.

To dare Or

– to be read in mind –

My open arms

are yours to listen

MY OPEN CHEST

is yours to blame

do not demand of me

to cherish

the ones that left

when others stayed.

 

And then again

You wonder

while torturing me

to understand

why am I not so open

to the demands

of people

I have never met.

 

So listen to this dear

and listen good

cause it’s the truth

I do not wish to be delighted

by other’s will to be ignored

I do not wish to be polluted

when all I see is just a face

of all your close friends

that politely

demand of me

to be your

slave.

 

And if you do as do you say

remain or

simply

dare

to go away.  

The other day

– to be read in mind –

 

I tried to catch your glimpse,

the other day, while standing still

at the edge of my being.

 

You looked pale and concerned

not at all satisfied by

my indiscreet staring.

 

I watch your bones,

twisting slowly while

covering the light of your face.

 

You didn’t know me at all

before the other day

and now we’re sharing pots to hide from rain.

Light Fears

 

– to be read in mind –

 

When fears become our enemies

we seek revenge in everything

in every fly that beats above

and every glance that whispers love.

 

We hate the ones that have no faults

we lust in prime times and alone

remain our faithful alibis.

Our friends, no longer our allies.

 

In this times we may find some light

If we forsake the moon and skies

and all the sun that seeks the skin

The light, my dears, hides within.

MER

– to be read in mind –

 

 

Me and her

We struggle

We fight against each other

Because of love

 

Me and her

Are brothers

We dare not to be fathers

Because of hate

 

Me and her

We see

What’s left behind the scene

Because of love

 

Me and her

Are buried

We dig what’s oh! so heavy

Because of hate

 

Me and her

Are startled

We try to be in balance

Because of love

 

Me and her

Are demons

We speak not to be heard

Because of hate

 

Me and her

We paddle

We crush into each other

Because of love

 

Me and her

Are lovers

We fly the flight of others

Because of hate

 

There’s nothing to regret.

There’s nothing to regret.

There’s nothing to regret.

There’s nothing to regret.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

About regret.

In-sane

– to be read in mind –

My answers are insane

Your questions must obey

the rules

of those who struggle

with understanding more.

 

You look at me in mirror

I look at you the same

And when you ask me something

I must delay a train

for vanity of vain.

 

You trapped me in the corner

Your wish is to command

I pray you find a reason

before you go insane.

And when we’ll look together

At what was with us then

We’ll laugh without no limits

Until we turn in grey.

Until we burn like hay.

Until we crash a plane.

Until we go back sane.

 

In-depend

– to be read in mind –

 

In dependency I find a rescue

In dependency I fight with love

In dependency I cut the cores

Independently

I stop.

 

In dependency I survive myself

In dependency I release my angers

In dependency I fight, I fight, I fight

Independently

I stop.

 

In dependency I can not fly

In dependency I can not cry

In dependency I can not be

Independently.

Shapelessness

– to be read in mind –

 

And in the need of other needs

I crawl inside a carpet and

pretend

I am all ok with steps on me

though all I feel is

shame.

 

Sometimes it’s nasty

sometimes cruel,

but after all, it’s also true

that I am no more than a

something on the floor.

 

While thinking I might go back

to wearing shoes

I am scared I might discover

that on the floor I was on

not under.

 

MeU

– to be read in mind –

 

It happens rarely

but when it does

I close my eyes

and I see

 

invading all my mists

debating all my clauses

resuscitating belief

the other me;

 

and in another context

you come and lay on my lap

make me coffee and pretend

we’re in love..with what

we see.

 

Next time I shall refuse

to answer all your answers

and maybe…just maybe

we could

develop into one another.

 

Of words of wars

– to be read in mind –

 

Sometimes I speak to others

Sometimes to myself

Sometimes if not often

I just try to impress.

 

What others might consider

A word, a phrase, a dot

For me is just a sample

Of hatred’s antidote.

 

I throw my arms around

I question everything

And then I just retire

In order not to speak.

 

You may think it’s a poem

About the act of wording

I might say it’s all true…or

I might just say nothing.

Mate-uring

– to be read in mind –

In a moment it appeared
the sight,
Seeing light of other lights,
bad from bad and right from right.

And since eyes can see
the night
only after an approach,
Courting can be a surprise, but it shouldn’t be
at all.

So don’t try to make up minutes,
I know “nothing” of this game,
Time has shown me the meaning
of you being
Yesterday.

Slim Paper

– to be read in mind –

My life beats faster than my heart,

I push a barrier, stick a flag,

I run quite naked on the sheets

of white slim paper and

I breath.

 

And when the sound of someone’s break,

releases hormones to my breasts,

I feel entitled to declare

that I believe in gratitude towards

the sinner.

 

Tomorrow matters to me not,

to others it’s a bit of shock,

to new mothers a nightmare

until they despair and bare

Another child.  

I am no’w more

To be or not to be is never the question. We are and that is that. Being is not admissible to any interpretation beside the truth of knowing that something is.

 

I find meanings everywhere, meanings behind meanings, feelings behind meanings, meanings behind feelings, feelings behind feelings. Everything compressed into a singular notion of everything. My everything is not yours, you can not buy it, steal it, procure it, you can only give it a ride as if on my roller-coaster, except I hate the feeling of falling so no heart-stoping experiences there. I am as an entity only in my imagination, there I can walk as one, think as one, fuck as one and eat whatever falls on the floor as one. Outside my imagination I am everyone, you, the tree, the fucking uncomfortable kitchen chair, the mass of glass dripping on my green walls, the table salt, the blue lucky strike cigarette, the pair of glasses that I hate, the tarot card of today – the queen of wands, my brother freshly showered. I could be anything and I am. What bothered me when I stood from my semi-comfortable bed earlier was the idea that all of these are known since forever, every single bright mind has come to this conclusions at some point. So what is after? I guess every generation perpetuates something of every and no previousness; then again, who I am to struggle with my own limitations when all I see is a product of someone else’s mind? That is something else that bothers me, but I will never get into it because bothering yourself with someone else’s sole desire to gain is pure unhappiness and unhappiness is being dead while still alive. 

 

I am walking into an empty garden. I choose garden because I want one. I want one desperately. With flowers and veggies and all the crap that makes my senses explode. I walk into it as if it is mine already, but I can’t pretend for way too long because it isn’t. It belongs to someone who loves it and lives through it every day. I am unknown to this person but I know him from stories and from his unique face that attracts all sorts of attention. My cat is meowing and I understand that wherever I might be, I am out of reality. My cat is not in it but I can hear her. I keep moving. I reach a back door of what seems to be a shelter for secrets. I open the door and hold it strong in case it falls apart. I step inside. First I feel the heat, the impressive all pores dilating heat; then, I see the light coming in peaces from outside as if choosing to sneak in with only one arm and one leg. Then I see bottles. Many many bottles. My God, there are pieces of feelings in them. One bottle is named “desire” and another is named “hate”, another is named “shame” and another is named “love”. I open the love one. I can’t deny I am obsessed with love and love is obsessed with me. We’re mostly in love and sometimes in me. And when I open it, it starts to crawl on my skin and my chin and in my eyes. And then I cry. I cry so much and hard and it feels so freaking good that I wish to never stop crying. I can speak while crying, I can fuck while crying, I can eat while crying, I can be amazed while crying and I can be reborn. And then the face comes into the room of secrets, smiles into my mouth and takes a jar. My tears are falling right into it as if guided by an invisible force of jar attraction. He stands there for about centuries, while I cry myself away. He then screws the top and takes a permanent marker made out of dark blood and writes on the jar “dismission”.

 

I look at him and I know nothing, because whatever was I, I am no’w more.  

Question’s Mark

Deceptions of first beginnings. I have to write to convince and all I want is to spray some fulfilment by eating question marks. What is wrong in being able not to dot the “j” or to surprise the “b” with a musical interpretation or russian adjustment. What is wrong in desiring less from every more.

I took my pencil and drew a face of a friend I adore. She looked at me with a different expression than I predicted. Apparently, I drew someone else, I lost the lines. The unique lines of uniqueness. But then I tried again and again and again, my entire wall ended up full of faces with no equivalents, yet to me…I was surrounded by friends. I know them all and they know me. I must confess, loneliness is not as bitter when you hear the whispers back.

Whatever happens to the meaning, I search for it, I eat for it, I pray for it and I lose people for it. The basic feeling of not knowing is no basics to me. To me, it is the not remembering. The forgetfulness that drives me mad, insane, sick in the head. I vomit its lacks and spaces. Call it whatever you want, it’s all the same, it’s being lost, it’s being incomplete, it’s being a juggler with no balls, it’s being a carpet with no Aladdin, it’s being a humanoid with one finger instead of five. It’s no fun, no games, no play, no arbitrary goals, no misbehaviour of opponents, no numbness of feet. I must make love. You must make love. We all must make love, at once at least once. That is my supreme meaning of them all. Onceness.

I look at my friends and they smile at me. They smoke, they drink, they fuck, they accept my ideas and understand my weaknesses. They treat me like a beautiful beast and I treat them the same. And when we love, we love with teeth and no armour. And if you ask me now to stick to your lines, then let me ask you this?

Let’s start with prose.

 

Projecting images is not easy. You take a piece of resentment and stick it to the surface of a clean moving glass. The drops divide into pleasant and unpleasant. Some are cold as chicken hearts before being cooked and some are warned out as if after a fight of beliefs. Nothing to do. The regrets are well established with lines thrown deliberately at each other, maybe there were two people involved, maybe there were more than two, twenty. The quantity doesn’t really matter when it comes to the source of identity. Lies are unbearable, but adaptation is always ready to stick a finger up on a highway to catch a truck with a talkative driver. Jumps on it, starts conversing. There are interjections, questions and answers and of course storytelling. He says he wants to stop for a smoke. After a while the cigarette is still burning on the asphalt and the truck is nothing but a moving vehicle into space, carrying silence. To be forced to jump is not a solution, to be pushed is not a problem, to be authoritarian about the amount of smoke is something undeniably cruel. Burning is necessary. Glass is freakishly happy. Turning black, blocking sun, perfect instrument for an eclipse observation. There are witnesses that mean nothing to anyone. Paid to dispose inconvenience. They steal puppets and make them chop some sticks. They prepare the fire with diminished anticipation. On one occasion there was a drummer playing cards. He stole someone’s eye. There were cries of desperation and fumigation. Fire. Everything down. Collapsed. The drummer was left blind with an eye in his pocket and a jackpot on the table. Who knew he was about to become a radio hit. No one. There were many incidents. People with dark horses riding in the yards. They were soul-diggers. They discovered gold and took it to the iron man. He made bullets out of it and they shot all the minds down. Boom! Boom! Dead pieces of undeveloped species. Bummer!

 

Let me tell you something more. I lived on a pile of moving arms and legs. Then the concrete called me to tell a story, I took my black suit on and took my shoes off. Freezing it was. I had to do the everything. I knew nothing. It became my first big nothing. I am freaking pleased. Let’s listen to some more music and shut up the pipes. Blow your thought and whistle for the grave diggers to put you on the list.

Welcome to a mind.  

Londonese Dream Follower (‘s first weeks)

 

First Londonese week of a dream follower is similar to a drawing on the asphalt. It’s exciting, mindless and full of unexpected turns of the chalk. The shape is pre-decided, the colors do not matter. The dreamer knows the way. Anything will do.

Second Londonese week of a dream follower begins with an obvious misunderstanding of the process and eventually a necessity for re-thinking the shape. Well, clouds are cuneiform blues and suns are circular yellows. That is quite clear except the fact that the drawer is not a child anymore and is not making an omelet without parent supervision. Here, nothing seems to do.

Third Londonese week of a dream follower makes everything seem like absolute nonsense. Therefore, there will be lines spastically traced, spirals with no relation to golden numbers and a big massive amount of nail filing. Eventually the incipient drawing slowly disappears under new wave of reflection. Constant rain becomes salvation by the approval of its effect on color. Dot.

Fourth Londonese week of a dream follower, which does not seem like a month, but rather a year, is a quick gathering of possessions and the loss of the dream. The dreamer stretches what’s left of his/her backbone and melts into disparity of identification. The competition is atrocious. Everyone is being the same, doing the same, with the skill of a freshly oiled machine. In this communal activity the dreamer stumbles. (S)he expects to be laughed at. (S)he is not. Instead, (s)he is ignored. No importance, loneliness. Then the stately sound of a tic and a tac of Ben reminds him/her to move. Fast.

Walking finally becomes pleasant. Melting in is comfortable, wide-spread. In this butterball there is fluidity, there is sense. To keep moving is essential to the constancy of the flow. So the dream follower walks. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

It can take five, six, even forty-eight weeks to make a circle. To find home. Dot. There is no actual ground kissing. Discovery of art. (Art = rambling of colorful scarfs well picked by the closest grabbing distance from the hanger. Burgundy is the new top color.) It appears interesting as an iris reflection, which makes you crave for more good light. Chalk. Another drawing, shapeless this time. And Hurrah! – first piece of the follower’s dream puzzle. Creation. Peace. Sleep.

First year. Gone. 

 

SIXth

Many things happen, all the time, everywhere, absolutely everywhere. How often can we imagine the plenitude of not being able to be able to imagine “everything”. You wish for more, but your feet are leading you towards any perceptual end, what is necessary is not vital, what is vital is conceptually dead. You find yourself staring at a window of a charity shop with no actual need for anything, except the non-corporatist charity of companionship.

Every single day I speak to others as I wish to speak to myself. I am practically having conversations with my own perception from my own perspective. I engage myself in listening only when my thoughts are gathering around another one of my thoughts. They start polluting my presence in a multipersonal circle. No matter what happens I can not progress. Fighting with one self presumes in itself the non-existence of any kind of neutral engagement. I speak to you, therefore I need to speak, not listen. I listen to you, therefore I listen, I do not speak. So…where is the middle ground? It’s where you lead the god damn thoughts to the guillotine of tongues. Muteness is the salvation of the ear. Deafness is the salvation of the eye. Blindness is the salvation of the tongue. Death is the salvation of the soul. Therefore, the only way to be saved is not to presume you can actually evolve without involvement and involvement has nothing to do with a naked walk in the park.

The room was hot and cold at the same time. Someone was drying their hair and the sound was covering all the other rumors of frustration. We wanted all to leave, to escape, to find another place, to rest in peace while still above the ground. There was a question, there was an answer and everything was sounding of dead fish trying to escape the hand of a child. There is no intention for destruction, there is only the unarmed engagement in a death play. The roles were divided. Someone was preaching pieces, someone was preaching love and someone was preaching inbetweenness. The roles were changing spontaneously. We did not know each other well, but we were digging in the same pillows with our preoccupied minds every night. Dreaming is controversial in a cold bed. We were waking up with transpired windows and our breaths were tracing patterns of a stagnant nightmare. We were believing, drawing, writing and waiting. This was life and we were living the yet unknown best times to be remembered. We were involved, in wanting more of that unimaginable everything.

The even better came. Disappointment of bad choices. I traced paths to reaching individuality and I ended up realizing, more and more, I could be individual with just those who did not wish for wishes. They wanted proofs, of what was yet to come. They wanted to find, while not chasing presumptions. They wanted what I wanted, to become one, by one. In itself, we were all dividing our devils in pieces on a plate, ate them with butter on bread and drank them up with red cheap wine, while dreaming of a night when the imagined comes entirely out of a rested brain. Beauty! We wish for beauty. We are almost there. In this room there is no time. We are not here to be, we are here to not be somewhere even worse. I am here and there is an unrecognisable voice coming from a piece of plastimetal, lifeless. I have no idea what may come, what I know is that I am not closer not farther from where I will be when I’m almost there.

Therefore, let’s skip conceptuality and jump into the pool, because water is nothing but another human being, brainless.

FIFth

 

My life is arbitrary. I follow my desires, I respect the ants crawling in the cracks and I represent the minority of stress-non-addicts. Everything seems to fall into place until inevitability hits the cords and I start playing on an instrument wrongly built for touristic purposes. I am not a novice in interpretation but the layers drive me mad. How cruel towards my ears have I been, for years, for chapters. I have ignored the most important of all communications, the sound telling another sound to never stop or to fuck off. Great conversations are never too long, they are quite slim, uninterpretable and there is no I don’t know. Knowing is not knowledge of something, but the understanding of its lack. Therefore, I crawled out of my stupidity shoes, tided my hands at the back, my back, and left my feet to do the thing. What thing? You know, drop their proudness. My ears were consuming buttery sounds, I had no bread, the taste seemed endless with tracks of oil all over my limbs, I understood I must obey the rules or I’ll be doomed to walk like a raped-for-money asshole. I closed my eyes. I was scared I could’ve been watched, by anyone. I kept opening them until I knew there was only a rabbit watching me from behind grass and he was only staring at my bare feet killing the grass. It took me minutes, minutes of despair, before I could feel safer behind my eyelids. They were not only hiding my body, my undone manicure, and my wide back, they were hiding me. I never wished more for someone to kill me, my loneliness became my happiness. I knew then and there, while killing grass, that there was no way back to body butter. I am behind my skin. Shoot me. 

Anger Management

Every day was another day until another day became that day. This early spring was earlier than expected, as it usually happens. Two randomly looking individuals were walking on a path. One was half-naked and one was looking for a fire. They did not exchange any kind of verbal fluency and even if they seemed quite accustomed to each other they only met seven times before.

How they first time met is unimportant. Most first times are boring until they are retold. It was a Sunday, dark sky, good for fishing, not good for hunting insects. One of them is bold. Which one does not matter. Believe me, this is not a description of the people involved, this is a rudimentary story about two people sharing experiences. They didn’t think much of each other, except that one of them had a hair sticking out of his nose and it bothered the other by the simple fact that he could estimate the intensity of breaths by the feather’ish lift of the tiny nose hair. All the rest was great.

Second time they met was the second day. And of course we all know it’s a Monday. Mondays are important for two things: if you are born on a Monday don’t bother eating shit while little, luck is not your thing; if you are not born on a Monday, you might get lucky. They met the second time on purpose, they set a meeting, at 12.00 pm sharp. Both were late over five minutes. One of them was wearing his beige coat, long to cover the knees, not long enough to become a comics character. The other one, who cares? Dressed, he was. They went for a walk. They walked around five miles with nothing on their minds beside the fact that whatever was happening the next day got all the other guests worried. Yes, something was happening the next day, but the next day is not until after this one, so bear with me.

Third time they met was the same evening after taking a shower. Showers are important for two things: they’re never dry and once you get inside you instantly feel the need to urinate. Some people struggle, so I’ve heard. They both smelled fresh and similar. Same soap. They had a drink and spoke of nothing in particular, except it was a great conversation.

Forth time they met was on the big fuss day. Morning seemed endless due to the queue in front of the door. The door was leading to a spacious room, full of people with tags. Someone was called “Not-so-Hairy Matthew” and someone was called “Hi, I am Neuro”. Immediately our two individuals got themselves tags. A freshly powdered woman gave them the instructions and they were seated next to twin sisters named “First twin” and “Second twin”. Both middle-aged with sharp synchronized voices.
Hello (x 2).
Hello.
Hello.
We’re twins (x 2).
Great.
Great.

The day was getting interesting when the pause was announced. Our individuals went outside and smelled the air. It was wet. It has been raining since forever. When the pause finished they returned to their seats to find the twins have left their auditory seats and were now on the stage prepared for the performance. Everyone was attentively looking, trying to find the differences. There were two differences between this particular twins: one did not have a belt and one was missing her right ear. They started the show when the noise went down. Everyone enjoyed it and clapped in amazement. Two sisters and both so great. Our individuals clapped and looked at each other with deep understanding of the obvious.

Fifth time they met was on a Wednesday. Wednesdays are important for one thing: they are kind of in the middle but not really. They met accidentally on the corridor, one was lonely and the other was out of toothpaste. They exchanged goods. One gave the other his toothpaste and the other listened politely to completely uninteresting facts of the other’s life. One of those facts was that he was sick of life. Nothing particular was predicting the end of this story. They took another walk and found a man sleeping on a bench. The man was dead. They decided to call someone. They called someone specializing in first aid and they both proved to be awful life detectors. The man was alive, just highly drunk on several types of hard liqueur. One of the individuals took his coat off, his hat and his scarf and gave them to the deadly drunk individual on the bench. The hat had to be taken back due to universal skull axis difference. They helped to carry him back. He proved to be “Hi, I am Neuro”. That night they both got drunk.

Sixth time they met was on a Thursday. Thursdays are great for two reasons: If you are hangover on a Thursday it’s absolutely fine, you have one day to recover until Friday and Thursdays are quite in the middle of the week but not really. Their minds were slowly dying in the controversial over-thinking on the substance of life. They decided to take another walk, this time in the different direction. They walked quite a lot. Apparently they were both in good shape and completely unaware of the formula: D=SxT (D, distance; S, speed; T, time). When they wanted to go back they realised they were lost. Lost were? The path was slim, the forest was of pine trees and the sun was about to get lost as well. Oh well…nothing to worry about when you have a fire. One of them did, so he remembered. He started to look for a fire but couldn’t find one. They decided to have a meeting point and separate.

After about one hour and something over ten minutes, depending on the clock, one heard the other one screaming. He turned and started to run to the source of sound. It took him ten minutes to see the other struggling to get out of a hole in the ground made by humans to catch some sort of stupid animals. Bingo! This is when they met for the seventh time. They decided the best solution was to get the other one out by taking his clothes off, binding them together therefore making a rope. They succeeded in approximately half an hour. They were both exhausted and tempted to laugh at the situation. None dared. The clothes got trapped in the animal trap. And they started walking. The dressed one offered some clothes to the other. I am not sure which one was wearing what, but one was half-naked and one was still looking for fire. The silence got interrupted by an exclamation of joy.

Oh my!!! I found the fire.
Matches?
Yes.
Matches?
Well…

They only had three matches, but that does not matter. They were all three wet. Only one of them got back. The other one….oh, well…got trapped.

Believe it or not, it’s all true and false

Eternity is nothing but a glimpse into reality, reality of demolition, of paganism and demasculinisation of yet undeveloped power of adaptation. Creation seeks its diaries through holes of inspiration and when time collapses into paint, becoming is as highly cherished as misunderstood repercussion. I am not myself, therefore I do not commit the crimes I am aware of before I stick my last needle into the vein of yet unborn identity.

There were waves and waves again, against, allowed to change every pattern of discretion. The tide was swallowing every laughter invading it with salt and capturing the breath of every last swimmer. It was glorious. The sun was down before the moon and the moon was nothing but a glimpse into our own sight. The chain saws were at work, under the water, under feet, under allergies of unknown provenience, everything was damaged…damaged with beauty.

The underwater sound of burning wood was capturing my ears, my hair was floating as if cut from the roots and my arms were left to drown unaware of the responsibility of surface. Nothing drowns unless its heavy, heavy to bear in mind. And when the need comes to move again, give yourself some time…time to realize that you are nothing but a floating body in the middle of a sea that doesn’t need you at all. At all.

And then the pupils shrink like butter in a pan; is it a new day or is it just the only last day of August, 2012? Eternity, come closer; I want to smell your back and marry your children…one by one.

FOURth

And when I start to think I slowly crave not to escape, but to re-enter.
How many times were pages turned, and turned again, crushing every thought between impatience.

The light was on. The flies were suicidal, all of them, at once. In this transcendence nothing mattered except the feeling of rebirth.
Accepted truth was written beneath faces. They all knew, the choice was prison. The light of life, the light of death, what difference does it make when there’s no difference?

Light me a candle and let it burn for all the paths that meant I’ll never be the same, for all the people who existed and will exist, never meeting, remembered by the sound they make when they wake up from knowing.

My name was written on the wall, black paint crawling to the floor, from floor to bed, and there, another wall. Hidden. And my breath painfully betraying my fear of weak sensations. Am I alone in this?

Sleep well, don’t wake up. This is not your bed.

Lights off.

THIrd

The distance was short, it only took few steps to break the curse of a straight line. And then, what was left of a faint impression was a sound of glass touching the front teeth.
He smiled, the world collapsed and the senile hand of a doctor have him a prescription for happiness. Few dots on a palm and nervous breakdowns became a smell of cookies after war.

There was a wish. To become big and deconstruct the entity and it all ended on a bench telling the worst jokes and not listening to anything said before, by everybody.

She came home late. The door was locked. Unlock. Everything seemed pale, touched by the disease of sameness. When she called his name, the echo of her voice produced an unbearable sound of desperation falling from the eleventh floor and cracking the ground until it bled.

They looked at each other and forced themselves to not throw glued sorrow over all the mirrors.
So it happened….meanwhile the groundbreaking trees are growing.

SECOnd

I discovered something, underneath the whole. It wasn’t an image or a phrase. It was not you, my dear. It was silence and its millions of companions, dancing in the moonlight, playing cards and speaking of everything you refuse to believe in.

Once there was a house, it was dark and maybe sometimes empty. This house was build in pain and it was surrounded by trees with no faces. A lot of trees, a lot of lacking faces. I never knew their desires, but I always forgot to ask. It may be simple to presume it ended, but the end is never what is seems, it is no other beginning, it is no other end, it is what none of us can sense, it is un-definition. Are you still afraid to breath what’s left, don’t be, your name is pressed between the pages of something old and something new and something nobody will read the way it really was. Your truth is just your own and no one has to know it, it will never disappear.

There is a cup, on the table. I do not wish to know what it holds inside. The trapped liquid might be beads and then, what sense does it make to hide it in my pocket. I wanted to get wet with paint and then pretend that I got scared on the way to heaven.

Knock two times,
divided by a second,
and then do it again,
forever.

FIRst

I never knew whom I was to become. Seemed like everyone did, around me and beside me. How could they, I wondered. How could someone know before the call, what is it that they must obey, is it word, is it pleasure, it is pain or sorrow, is it life itself? I never knew. I was wondering streets of small shops that sell secrets for rebirth and I couldn’t even dare to look through their single earrings or broken necklaces. I was so full of others that I did not have to be myself, my own. I dedicated everything to just living every second and when I was asked to draw a line I made a circle. My tail was left in the darkness of the corner, I was hidden there, beside the monsters I adored and adored me, they needed me there so they could be.

The roads were full. The wine tasted of ground, of pee under a bush, of something we never knew the taste of. The sounds were joyful, I heard people singing, in groups, they were happy and free and happy and free and then they weren’t. They all disappeared, but their presence is always there. You always fear their laughter, you never know if it is really you who has a stain of shame on your face or is it just a random thought that ran through their heads not even touching the top of your shoe. How do they know who they are? They seem to, all of them. They keep telling me I am unique, are they – unique? The banquet was on fire. It consumed the costumes and the lazy beards and by the end of evening we were left with pieces of cakes and fast running fish. Whatever I say, I imagine.

Becoming nothingness

Sometimes I step out of the door and discover a world completely unknown to me. I don’t belong in the world I belong. It is only possible through happiness, but we outstretched it into nullity, into emptiness of form, a disaster that might occur when the peace is not at stake anymore. How comes we never know where we are? Are we where life guides us or are we where directions fail?

When she was little she did not like to play. She found playing a torture, a mean by which all her weaknesses will be exposed, consumed and mutilated. There was no need in all that. Is there at any time? Maybe, after being confronted with a continuous defeat. When she grew up she had no purpose except to become someone, someone new, someone understandable and liked, even loved. She faced no consequences of her actions, because they were dictated by hand. Even in millimeter distance of approval there is a doubt of equivalence. When everything stops, what comes next? The new desire to possess comes to mind, but then to possess is nothing more, nothing less, than a momentary gesture. Then we sit on the grass and imagine everything we can never put in words, because words give meanings to completely fake emotions.

By the time she had her first baby she knew she had to play. The game seemed simple, yet devouring. What is the next step in an invented game? Is it faith, belief or simple assumption of creativity flow? What matters the most? How we play or why we play? Then she disappeared, from everything and everyone. Her only shelter became the rule of justification and the only escape was through a locked door. She never knew how to hate, but she began to understand its meaning. It penetrated her soul…she dissolved into nothingness. It is not brutal, nor stupid…it is complete. There is none such circular precise form as nothingness. It is not hard to grasp, yet it is mostly uncomfortable to present on white paper. How do you correctly pronounce the sentence of disappearance?: I no longer exist…I only am.

After few years of clandestine discretion she forced herself to walk. The walk was long and inhumanly extenuating. It took her centuries to recover and then she was forgotten again. Not because she couldn’t breathe, but because she was constantly breathing.

And when they asked her what she wanted, she said: water…I wish to drown myself in liquified skin of my ground…I wish to remain Earth, unbothered.

The I of naked us

We may ignore the things that complete us, but it doesn’t mean that they ignore us as well.

We imagined the world differently, like a space, sometimes empty, where you can grow trees and plant some more seeds in case the end is not too near. As time passed we couldn’t escape the feeling that we created nothing out of something with no particular meaning. We decided to dry our eyes and spit on our hands, rob them in preparation for a new act of undamaged greatness.

We woke up at seven, in the morning. We knew the day is nothing but a day, but there are so many reasons to believe otherwise. We decided to drink, water, maybe juice, enough to feel like urinating now and not on the bus which will take us to our unknown destination. Every destination is unknown, if you don’t really think about it and even if you really do. We sat on the bus, by the window which had more viewing space. We could be picky, people were not in a hurry as they usually are to get fast into a bus which doesn’t really care about their presence. We were quiet. Words are useless for actual understanding. We forgot the phone, on purpose. People were gathering, staring at the comfortable position of our feet finding spaces to breath. Feet are amazing, when they are loved. Humans moved all to the back, in high-school I would’ve envy them. Now, no body dares to get drunk on a bus, no body dares to laugh. Laughing became defecating, something we’re ashamed of, something unusual, peculiar, low and denigrating. Laughing is a cause of disgust and we felt fantastic. The bus moved slowly. The driver had a moustache. We don’t like moustaches, they distract our attention and force us to discover what else is there beside that mouth. We then start looking and after a while we’ll find a spot where we can fix our gaze and stay there, without listening. Ignorance is a bliss, unless it deprives you from useful information. We travelled for hours and hours. The time was passing fast, we were both thinking, of everything and most of all, of nothing specific. When someone asks you what you think right in that second, you feel the need to step back to your initial thought, otherwise it just doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense without its beginning. Or maybe it does, when the beginning is also the end. We didn’t look at each other for such a long time, really look, not pretend to pay attention while the mind is being invaded with all the little things that hug each other becoming an endless composition of littleness. We always think how can we never look into our father’s eyes, but that’s another story.

We were drunk with silence, interrupted by unknown voices of people so close to us. How many of them suffer? How many of them dream? How many of them want to be outside, in front of the bus, standing? How many of them think of us as someone closer to them than all the other people they want to think of? Sometimes we ask this questions and not out of curiosity, but solely from the claustrophobic feeling of uniqueness. The sun came up and we felt blessed. We haven’t seen so many leaves moving in the same direction. The wind was angry on the smallness of sand and on the vigour of mountains. The path was getting shorter and we were about to drive into a rocky street of unfamiliar wheel sound, of cracking, of destruction. Each body participated, we were together against the ground. Buses are just beasts. People are their weight.

When we stopped for a small break, it was unbelievable to see how many people wanted to escape their seats. It had nothing to do with the unfitting design, it had something to do with space, with hate, with freedom. We couldn’t grasp it. It is such a big thought to focus on. It is wide and spreads its legs inviting you to discover so much more without actually asking. We are never truly ready until we are forced. We watched people smoking, talking to themselves, eating something with no taste and waiting to get back in. It is a comfortable thing to know that after all, no matter how shitty or covered in old gum the seat is, it is yours. It gives you a direction, a place of your own. No one can sit on your place because you already sat on it. The others respect your choice, even if they don’t really give a damn. The doors closed, we moved again. We looked around and we sang in our minds something we don’t like, just because it was simple to remember. Ephemeral day songs that need not to be remembered.

We fell asleep. I dreamed of the ocean. I dreamed of it as if it was no reason for it, I dreamed of it just as we dream of fish when we are hungry. We hate fish. The ocean seemed endless and I knew I can step on it, not because Jesus did it before me, but because I am a dreamer too and I was dreaming. I could hug it without getting wet, maybe only on my head, the cold wet hair makes us want to play, to remember the skin between our fingers, the skin that never dies unless it’s burned. Or at least, that’s our theory. I was thirsty, but even in a god damn dream you know the ocean is too salty. My mouth was open for some salvation and we started to drool. We drooled on the bordeaux shirt and on the chin. It felt sticky, like glue on trees, which we used to eat when were little, too little to remember. We used to think of it as insect shit, but the fact was never proven. Internet was just a spermatozoid back then. The waking up on a bus is painful. Another comfort is hard to reach and your face rounds up forming a pillow for the window. The eternally leaking glass may need an alteration, a bump, a cancer, a disease, a palm to make it dirty, unique.

The trip was almost over. You could tell by all the synchronised movements of our neighbours. They need again to escape their seats, for other seats, for other seats. We didn’t know why, but we got intoxicated. We took our shoes back on, our feet were afraid of becoming ugly again. We gathered all our things and the window became more and more unimportant. We stepped outside, there was a field and we were naked. Our clothes couldn’t hide our shame. We had no idea where the fuck we were. I was alone.

Wedding dress funeral

It may seem not fair or even entirely false, but sometimes it doesn’t matter how much belief is involved, sometimes it has nothing to do with time, but rarely they both meet and then you wish they always counted.

I woke up in deep silence. The sun was invading my dreams through the eyelid curtain. There was no reason to wake up and yet, the day began so many hours ago. How fast is the awakening moment? How deep is the desire to escape? These are not questions I asked myself, though I should’ve.

I took the glass from my nightstand and drank a drop. I wasn’t thirsty. I almost never am. I guess my body has a fear of drowning. I am not addicted to magazines and they don’t tolerate my need of ripping them apart and making sense of just a colour or a letter. I compose my own messages and they are linked to what my existence becomes day by day. This day was of no importance, at least not for the moment when you first remove the blanket that keeps you warm. I wish I never was addicted to warmth.

My phone dropped on the floor and I instantly asked myself: why the hell do I need a phone when I ironically replaced its purpose with an alarm. I stepped out of the door holding my toothbrush with my canines, which still hurt from my first fill in. I waited by the door of the bathroom, it was occupied. I began to make noises, reproducing a certain song. That is my fill in for the silence. That’s what everyone does, when they feel uncomfortable and try to hide themselves behind unknown tunes. Silence is a torture for those who have no words. I realised it was Mozart’s Wedding March. And then it all came to me. All the gifts, all those same colours on same bodies on same people I never met, the white dress, the crinkly sensation it gave to my skin, the high uncut green grass slightly touched by its white tail, my breasts breathing almost out of the dress, my hands with uncountable fingers…the feeling I was about to say “yes” to someone. I never found out who it was. The uncut grass was concerning me so much more. There was a house I remember, but I never stepped in it. I saw myself in white, in the white wedding dress. Maybe I shouldn’t believe in the superstitious predictability of death, but I do. It was not a dream of a new beginning, it was a dream of an end.

My tongue started to burn from the toothpaste and all I wanted was to scream. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. My white teeth obsession, my perfect cosmetic purse, my stolen white towel with a slight smell of cigarettes, my beautiful pyjamas, the food I never tasted, the things I did on purpose, the walks I never took, the hands I never shaked, the signs I never got to understand, the birds I just began to hear, the voices in my head, the stories I wanted to read and all the words I dreamed of writing. All that did not matter. The sun was so damn right to wake me up. My phone was so damn right to remind me I should send some messages. The coldness was so damn right to scare me. It was time to start believing.

The only helpful thing was making love and not because it was love-making, but because it saved me from wearing a wedding dress on my funeral day.

The inevitability of unpredictable soon

Sometimes we may not understand, but we all feel even the most understandable things.

The summer was getting hotter and hotter. The heat was penetrating even the smallest molecules, invading even the most hidden places of houses, streets, fields and human bodies. It felt like an explosion in a dilated time, as if witnessing a massive destruction by adapting to it slowly.

On this particular day Jim and Don decided to take the car and drive to the nearest water and try to forget everything. They took small necessary and unnecessary things: towels, cigarettes and all the other things that people get attached to in day-to-day life and feel short-handed without. They got into the car and drove, Jim drove. Don was more into playing with the speed requested wind. First the fingers moved, then the hand, then the head, smiling mouth, moving lips and unnoticed density of his eyelashes. He screamed at some point and felt stupid after, but Jim patted him on the knee to let him know it was fine, it was more than fine. He also gave him a look of peaceful happiness.

They arrived when the sun hit the zenith. They didn’t care about the ultraviolet or any kind of violets. They parked the car and ran trying to catch each other down the small heal that separated the dusty road from the blue liquid that was about to swallow their skin. They took their clothes off and ran. The water felt strangely caressing and loving. It gave a feeling of a bed, like sometimes in a bathtub when very tired we almost fall asleep and the water becomes the softest blanket that cuddled our skin. They went to swim far far far and swam back. They decided to rest on the shore stones, still bathed by water, it was impossible to get out of water now, the heat would’ve melted their flesh like toxic acid.

– You think this is how it ends? asked Donny.
– What?
– You know, our world, us?
– You mean us us, or the whole world.
– I mean us, Jimmy, us, you and me, us.
– Don, we are forever.

They started to laugh while looking at each other’s perfect teeth. They knew it was true, of everything…everything is forever. Then they looked to the horizon line, trying to imagine what’s beyond it. The air was dancing forming strange forms of transparent smoke, as if, the water was fire and the fire was unstoppable and joyful. In this moments so many thoughts passed through their minds that it was just impossible to stop the searching on just one, focus on it and develop it into another thought, better, more secure, more mature, more full of truth. They knew the truth. The truth is easy, when it is not feared. They knew what was coming and they agreed to not try to dig a hole for it and light a candle on it, trying to say goodbye to facing it.

– You think there is something…something that can be precisely repeated? asked Donny, while still dreamy.
– What?
– You know…something, a moment, an action, a gesture…can it be reproduced?
– Well…you and me, we both know, that is just not possible, but we tried because we believed it might be possible, so either it was hope, optimism or unconscious truth.
– From other generations you mean?
– Maybe from other worlds, right there, over that horizon line.

Jimmy stretched his hand while closing his left eye trying to point exactly on the line. Donny moved closer to him and closed his left eye by tickling Jim’s right cheek while focusing on the exact point of meeting between the tip of the finger and the beginning of another world.

They went to swim some more, playing with the water’s hair between fingers and rolling in it forming cocoons. They loved every single moment of that experience and for a while they completely forgot that they had to go back. When the sun decided fast as if from an urgent urge to hide, they looked at each other and breathed as if breathing to a stethoscope. On the way back nobody said anything. Donny didn’t play with the wind and Jimmy was driving focusing on the white line on the side indicating the curves of the path.

When they got close to the house Jim stopped the engine. The silence made them move. Don stretched his skinny hand to the door handle and looked through the rearview window. The sun was setting down. He opened the door and the cicadas invaded the silence. He stopped at half-exit and looked at Jim.

– If nothing disappears, I’ll see you soon, said Don while analysing Jim’s movement of the eyelashes.
– I’ll see you soon, said Jim and blinked twice.

Hunting for drops

Maybe it’s faith, but some people just don’t believe in it. There are too many things at reach in this world, all we have to do is hunt for them.

It was a beautiful morning of the first day of spring, beautiful in the sense that there was at least a slight impression of sunlight. Maria woke up with a huge headache. One of those that makes our head as big as if it could compete for a place in the solar system. And so, Maria stretched her arm and got from the nightstand her pills for headaches. She didn’t have to call anyone. No one was there anyway. She was far from home. She gave herself some time, approximately ten minutes for the pills to start kicking this annoying headache’s posterior. While she was lying in her bed, face up, legs bended forming a tent under her knees, her hands on her stomach, a stomach that cried out for food. Maria was used to ignore this sort of cries or any kind of vital physiological screams.

Then she covered her eyes with her cold palms and started to think of the day when her neighbour, David, invited her to his birthday. That was an unexpected invitation, since she only saw him once and refused to share his ice-cream. They were only fourteen at the time. She did not say no because she did not like ice-cream, but she had no desire to share his saliva as well. She always thought of sharing food as an indirect kiss with a person. Since she saw for the first time her mother kissing her stepfather, she thought of it as an exchange of saliva and nothing more. She hated the thought of it. She couldn’t understand why would people excavate for saliva in other places when their own mouth is full of it and the whole idea of achieving some foreign one didn’t make sense at all. Her mother convinced her to go to David’s party. She thought her mother just wanted some free time from her, since she always complained that Maria spends all the time in the house and is not at all interested in other children. She used to say “Baby, loneliness is the worst curse of humanity”. Well, Maria couldn’t understand the extent of loneliness on the development of the soul, since she had no idea she possessed one. Her mother made her a dress from an old dress of her own. It was pink with silver-white frills, it was beautiful indeed. Her mother always had great taste. At the party she found herself surrounded by children with no interests of her own. All they talked about Maria found pathetic and, most of all, inexplicable. She couldn’t understand why would someone be interested in someone else’s dress when it was raining outside. David approached her and asked if she would like to dance with him. She refused and David got very upset. She sneaked out and hid under the rain. She took her shoes off feeling her feet disappearing. She stretched her tongue in order to feel the water drops walking on it. She covered her eyes with her palms, the drops were making her eyes cry. Then instantly she felt a strange soft sensation of something foreign grabbing her tongue. She took away her palms and saw David as close as a reflection in the mirror when you want to feel the cold of liquid silver on the tip of your nose. She pulled back and looked shocked at David without saying anything. They looked at each other for minutes and minutes, then she stretched her tongue out again hunting for drops, pressed her small wet palms to cover her eyes and waited. When she opened her eyes again, David was hunting for drops as well. Since that day they started to hunt for drops closer and closer to each other, together, until they decided to hunt in their own apartment away from home years after, until they hunted for drops in front of all their relatives in a church. The last time they hunted together was last year.

Maria suddenly opened her eyes. It was one year today, exactly one.

Lincoln green Monday

“Is there something else in there?” she asked.

There was a time when Rose thought of her daily life as a piece of paper she has to put colours on…so she did. She painted her life in red almost every Tuesday, Thursdays were for green and sometimes orange, she loved to watch the sun go down really really fast, Sunday was just another blue day, normal skies, no clouds to poke, no super birds to call by names, Fridays were for black, sometimes black is not enough to make everyone believe you’re more than just a dot, on Wednesdays she wore something between pink and velvet, she couldn’t really decide which one was more than the other, Saturday was not at all as white as everybody thought, underneath she had always hidden some dots of atomic tangerine and Mondays were something else. For Mondays she have made a lifetime list, what colour she would wear for each week of her life (she calculated she will live till 100, just to make sure), wrote them on small pieces of papers, folded as to hide a big secret, putted them in a fishbowl and picked one every Monday morning. That, my dear curious fellows, was not because she wanted to look predictable, but because there was nothing more exciting than to read something you wrote in advance and not to remember what was it exactly. So on her Monday’s list you could find all sort of colours, of which one could not even think of: android green, american rose, antique fuchsia, battleship grey, banana mania, brick red, bubble gum, Lincoln green, denim, dollar bill, granny Smith apple, international orange, light salmon pink, mordant red 19, neon carrot and much more…and all of this, even if you may not believe it, are real colours. They looked on her fantastically fit. No one would ever suspect that there was actually someone on the Lincoln if she decided to take a sunbathe on the top of her father’s Lincoln. It was not at all her favourite place, but she loved to be on a completely different hight level than others. Some would lay on benches, some on the ground, some in some bed, some in someone else’s bed, someone on a high building…but only her father owned a Lincoln, at it was great.

Today was her birthday. She was not alone and yet, the trees outside seemed to call her for a chat. Those old bastards are never getting tired of colourful conversations. It was Sunday and Rose was as blue as an endless sky with no clouds. The table was full of blue plates, on which you could see the marks of fingers that wanted to make sure there won’t be any blue cake left, a lot of dirty blue glasses, 100 broken blue candles and you could hear from the other room, as if from far away in the woods, some sounds of melancholic music, blues.

“No, there is nothing left. The bowl is empty.” he answered.
She smiled.

I am a live

Who are you? Yes, You! the person who’s reading this not knowing why the hell is he/she actually doing this. Are you alone? Why do you instantly think that I’m asking about the closest spacial proximity, how about the building, the city, the country, the world, life? Are you alive? How often? Are you a man? A real one? What do I mean? So you’re not…or maybe you’re a woman, which means 3 seconds ago you smiled. Are you happy? ok, let’s skip this one. Are you mad? about something or someone and you’re just wasting time around (reading this) thinking time will give you the answer? well, it does, every day and mostly every morning. Are you a morning person? if not, you’re not listening to the right music. Are you clean? As a whole? Are you complete? Are you simple? like nothing you can think of right now, but everything you can imagine? Are you a horse? What color?

When I was 6, I received a birthday present from my grandmother and my parents (I think), a counting mechanism, very colorful one (the red i remember the most), simple one, used in shops at the cash register long time ago, still used in my country and I still have no idea how it works. My gradmother asked me “are you happy?” I was, it was colourful. I hated math. I still do.
Are You happy? Sorry, I needed to get back to this.
Are you? throw a coin.

Are you a pervert? in your mind, dreams, bed? Are you close? to what you want. i’m sure there is something eatable close to you. Are you a dreamer? don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up…crap! Are you aware of your soul? How? Are you aware of your ears? Do you hear? do you hear the world, YOUR world…Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen L i s t e n _ __ ____!
Did you know then when you write a word a lot of times it starts to seem wrongly spelt? Try it. I know you won’t. Are you fat? you must hate summer. I love it. Are you insane? Are you my friend? How often?

Are you YOU? really? i am amazed, no matter what the answer.
Are you still here? for how long? so you’re about to die. No, fool, i am not asking are you here on that chair/sofa/floor/bed/carpet/window. I am also on a chair, not a very good one, it’s from my kitchen and it’s uncomfortable like hell…yes, hell is uncomfortable, because it’s upside down. I am here X

Imagine the interview of your life:
-Hello.
-Hello.
-Take a sit.
-Thank you.
-Coffee?
-Tea.
-Sugar?
-No. I am very glad to be here.
-We don’t have “I’m very glad to be here” sugar.
(forced laugh, from you)
-Who are you?
-I’m sorry? (who am I? who am I? who am I? who am I? jduzguykgakweugfwugjbcMHBkjUGKJABSJJBZXJKBGKJUBDSJBJVKZJBSJBDKVJHBAJUGBV Ncsbzjhbjbvjkejvjbvzjs,j,j,jbszv,jheluycgauwgwlekbjlbvjaugwbacwjbvlugevlabwjevbliug……..)
-Who are you?
-aaaaa (msnbvdkjagwkugvekjbac,jblwekugvbjbalkvuzgjk) … well, I (stop there!).

We tend do feel insulted when someone, out of the blue or green or dark green, asks us “who are you”? Insulted = first you think “what do you mean who I am, can’t you see?” then you fast, very fast look for a smart answer, you think “this answer is important, it’s gonna define me, it’s what this asshole will remember of me…who am I? who am I? who am I? who am I?) ok, nothing comes to my mind…shit, I am nothing…I can’t say that. I am not nothing!…this guy thinks he’s smart…shit…why, after all (?), is he asking me this? who the hell is he? = Insulted.

I was asked twice in my life.
First time, it was a singer, good looking, not very good looking. Friend of a friend’s brother. True story. I wanted an autograf. He asked me holding a pen, my pen, “for whom? who are you?” “well, i don’t know, I am Cristina” I still have his autograf and above it “for Cristina, who doesn’t know who she is”. Oh, I felt insulted. I still have it.
Second time, few days ago, a guy who wanted to flirt with me, asked me crawling next to me like a cat “who are you?…I smiled (this smile said: you are not getting anything)…and I answered “I am Cristina” very convinced. Oh, I was disappointed. He wasn’t. He didn’t get my smile or my lack of imagination.
Do you know why we don’t really say the first thing that comes to our minds, because it’s funny, not stupid, funny…for others. We would love to shout it, scream it until we get hemoroids and then become “THAT, with hemoroids”…which is even funnier…for others. You know what’s the funiest part: the answer you actually give.

Who are you? Are you a smoker? Are you a dancer? always be! Are you black?…we all are inside our noses. Are you white? winter is taken. Are you fast? ok, you need more condoms. Are you a color? green is overrated. Are you hungry? I just went to kitchen. Got some cereals, milk, watermelon and sugar…all in one bowl. It’s 20.51. I’m hungry. Are you a fighter? Who’s the enemy? Are you my friend?

When I was in High School, a train hit me. I was shocked. Very. Everyone was fakely worried, because I knew that was funny as hell…yes, hell is funny, because it’s upside down. I started to cry. Like a small baby. My teacher, of religion, asked me “why are you crying? are you hurt?” “no, I am alive”.
I am a live. I am a dreamer. I am a dancer. I am a river. I am a map. I am a palm. I am a tree. I am a book. I am a scar. I am a cat. I am a window. I am a child. I am a melon. I am a wish. I am a dot. I am a miracle. I am a paradox. I am a frog. I am a plug. I am a calendar. I am a needle. I am a word. I am love. I am a piece.
I am a naked man on a bicycle. I am a bracelet. I am a song. I am a drug. I am skin. I am a tomato from your last night salad. I am a bird. I am a mirror. I am a nose, full of dust. I am a virus. I am a dark stain on a wedding dress. I am a cake. I am a violin. I am a lamp. I am a pocket. I am a superhero. I am the left foot. I am a blanket. I am a cup of tea, black with honey and milk. I am a monster, made of jelly. I am a clown, without a nose. I am a fish, on a wall. I am a star, somewhere. I am an open door of a room with no flowers. I am a belly button without a hole. I am a caramel candy. I am a beginner. I am a note, La. I am an astronaut, under water, in a bathtub. I am a field…endless. I am a red lip on a black and white party. I am a pen. I am a circle. I am a poker card, under the table, under a shoe, man shoe, size 44. I am an eye. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes. I am a seeker. I am a puzzle, of more then 10. 000 pieces. I am a joke. I am a world.
I am a question: who are you?

Lose everything

September 7, 2017 at 1:50pm in Berlin

So what if I lose everything

I lose my love, my home,

What if my blood drains out and I forget who I was and where I came from?

What if I lose all the preciousness and all the sublime in one hit of a pipe or under a cloudy low sky?

What if I’m asked where did I come from or even trickier, what if I’m asked who I was before

And what if I’m told I’m not human no more

What else can I be? Can I choose or do they tell me?

Does it matter what kind of a being I am? What I eat, whom I know, what language I speak?

What if there’s nothing to hold on to? What if there’s no death, i can’t even die!

What if I don’t have a face or a mask or something to cover my skull? Does that count as being alive?

 

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Miss Pelled Ballance

Childhood terror

 

We carry the terrors of childhood

The devil, the gypsies, the wolf

Invented by our creators

to behave, to be good.

As we grow they grow with us

as we dance they dance

as we walk they follow

and as we sleep they embrace.

It was a night. As those dotted by tiny outside lights that flicker from unidentified porches. She was looking for something in her kitchen, bare-feet on freestone. In a moment she felt a presence. Can not be said it was unfamiliar, she felt it many times in her life. It was her childhood terror, embodied, somewhere there, next to her. So close that she could sense his movement traced on the far end of her body hair. She thought about running out to her friends’ house but she knew well to well that she can not escape this meeting. As usual, she tried to press the white plastic switch, but the light wouldn’t come out. She pressed it harder, though knowing the pattern, almost hitting it with her medium-sized fist. Nothing. No light. She walked to her bed, touching the walls with her fingertips and crawled under her blankets. He was there. Definitely a male presence. Almost all her terrors had a male definition. At her right side, as if a lover with no face. She did what she’s done before in a “following me horror” nightmare. She thought of tricking it. She knew there were two options: play or love. She felt his fingers touching the blanket over her stomach, pressing. She grabbed the fingers but encountered something much differently textured than expected, claws. Long, semi-circled, sharp. While playing with them she felt her fear growing as if a shadow from around the corner and she knew that just playing won’t save her. So she asked herself: why not love the beast? She, laying on her back, not facing her dear terror, stretched her right arm and touched his cold face with her sweaty warm palm. Slowly, as if an adored one laid there. The skin felt like rubber, soft, but not too soft. The cheeks, so grumpy. The chin, so long. She grabbed the chin while pulling and it stretched more and more. She pulled and pulled until it teared. A part of his face in her hand. She wanted to taste it, her terror’s flesh. She pressed it on the warm tongue, gathered her teeth, pressed her medium-sized lips together and masticated. And as the rubber warmed inside her mouth and released its distinctive flavour she remembered the pink spitted dot on the pavement she found as a child. A chewing gum. And in that moment she felt something so unpredictable. She felt silly for carrying this fear, wrapped around this chewing gum monster onto her adulthood. And as her silliness moved towards shame she thought of trains departing from platforms in a hurry. The whistles signalling the moment for last quick goodbyes. Her terror was leaving never to come back this way. She hugged him one last time, so dearly, so strongly, releasing such a human sob. A last thought sealed the nightmare: how was she suppose to live without her terror?

childhood terror, picture

foto credit: www.ruthborgfjord.com

Daughters of Men

Oh dear man,

why so confused?

Aren’t you the one who set the rules?

Who built the world and

wealth within

who said that birthing is a sin?

Oh dear man,

why so damn small?

Aren’t you the one who grew so tall

from conquering the open fields

and raping fruits just so it pleased?

Oh dear man,

why so sad?

Aren’t you the one who was so glad

when witches burned for what you later

shall call porn?

Oh dear man,

why so afraid?

Aren’t you the one who left a trait

for turning love away from fate?

Oh dear man,

why so not gay?

Aren’t you the one who took no shame

in adding salt to wounds of glory

and saying “victory” instead of “sorry”?

Oh dear man,

now that you know

the little nothing of it all

I dare you not to look in water

for future is your self-created daughter.A-girl-from-the-minority-Yazidi-sect-rests-at-the-Iraqi-Syrian-border-crossing-in-Fishkhabour-Dohuk-province-after-fleeing-Isla

I carry your fears, mama

I carry your fears, mama

I carry them in thoughts of morning

and thoughts of night

in thoughts of running

away from your kind of life.

I carry your fears, mama

I carry them in my spine

so when I bend under pressure

of losing the time which

doesn’t possess me as it did

in your times

I’m simply saying: mama,

please let me be mine.