2017, raw and rough

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A shadow of a portion of trees falling on the road, moving continuously with the wind. And I see two yellow bulbs hanging from the lower branches. For no reason, it makes me think of you.

It rained recently. It was so beautiful, started something around five in the evening. The best, best part was the beginning. You stand there and look from your gallery, and it’s this powerful shower and this serene noise, and this washed green, and happy faces; busy, happy city. It’s the kind of chaos you want to melt into.

I have mixed night and day here in the writing. But it’s kind of like that these days. So mixed. I try and fail, cannot hold any end of this string. It’s not bad but it’s not good either. More like the “middle” of a process. Boring, slow, confusing, but not extremely pathetic. Because you know what comes from a thing like that and well, you’re looking forward to it…

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2017

Fear, etc.

Brave was one who wouldn’t let fear get to them. But now you are trapped in your second nightmare of the season, waiting for it to end. And it’s taking your life.
Finally something worse happens in the story and you wake up with a jolt and a scream, then take long breaths. Find your phone and consider possible options – who could be awake at that hour? – because you need to text someone before you take the Walk of Valor to your parents’ room, scared and ready to cry like a five year old.
“I need support,” you say, and receive.

All day you try to forget it, and sometimes you do, but mostly it keeps coming back. It is when night returns and you lay on your bed once again that you realize what bravery actually means: It is sleeping another Night.

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2017, Poems and poetry, Proses

♫heart·strings

Another cobalt blue sky lit by innumerable stars. Tiny, bright pockets of fairy-light. We sit just by the river, taking in the fresh scent of dewy grass, soft wind, and the feeling of our togetherness.

My feet are crossed and my heart is full. We don’t have enemies anymore – neither Time, nor the World. We are doing fine.

I stand up and step into the blue river. Your hand is in the water and you are splashing at it gently. As my feet touch its cool, smooth surface, we hear a strange music start. It’s coming from a distance but it feels so very near, so very soothing. Or was it from our hearts? I imagine stars coming closer – those tiny pockets of fairy-light falling to dance with me, and I look at you. You are smiling too.

Similar posts: Skin, Wings, Sea calls, Soulburst.
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2015, My Writings, Poems and poetry

You can’t play with matches, but you can play with hearts.

Nighttime’s longish plain hours.
I stare at the sky but don’t see you. Instead
it is the vastness of blue patterns with glistening silver balls:
on repeat, on repeat, on repeat.
I sit on the grass.

Life for me has been simple,
much like that of stars.
They stand at their place among millions, and shine
bright some days and not-so-bright the rest,
waiting to be wrapped
into the Eternal Blanket at last.
They don’t reach the Moon like I can’t reach You.
I can’t move.

And the desire–only the desire fills me with so much fear I tremble like a sick man
with its fever.
I will embrace a sadder ending, I guess.

I stand.
I walk on the grass and tell you in my heart how I love
the wet, tickling feel of it.
I wish you were here but I wish I would stop wishing that soon.
I need to move on, like we all do.

I never knew where I was heading to until I found myself
stranded and alone.

I have missed your presence on many occasions.

I have known the void–the unfillable void–
and I’ve tried everything in my power to help it.
Only, it just grows.

They tell us not to play with matches.
Why don’t they teach us ways of protecting and surviving instead?
If you can list me horrors of things that could bring harm,
why can’t you freaking save me? Or tell a remedy?

Fire burns, yes. But so do feelings.
Did nobody tell you: you should not incite in others what you have no intention of serving?
That breaking hearts is just as lethal, that being in someone’s tears
just as dangerous as is blissful being in prayers?

Stars disappear every day, seeing life after dark after life
after dark.
You won’t care if I tell you how I do, too.

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2014, My Writings, Proses

White Roses.

Apparently fixed on the ceiling, those stone-like eyes kept staring into nothingness and the worlds beyond it. The fan whirred slowly, like the clock ticked short taps, and the heart pumped liquid in and out. Everything moved in its own circle of existence, performing the allotted functions steadily and uncomplainingly. But even then, it felt like the world had somehow turned upside-down, and the fan whirred only to mock in its own given voice, the time moved to show how invaluable every other being before it was, and the muscle pulsated to define how the gods-on-earth were only too frail and fragile; not being able to keep anything from working or breakingeven their hearts.

Once unleashed, the mind traveled speedily into the fields of green and gold where the spark in one another’s eyes had signed smilingly the invisible yet undeniably substantial contracts of always staying together. It wandered farther to the streams of crystal blue waters where hands were held and oaths were repeated before angels of the world, and names were carved on rocks as well as on every atom of each other’s being. Tracing back the swift walks made across sand lanes and muddy roads, it came to rest only as the image of stars dancing as they were that night appeared on the retinas, and the sharp smell of white roses made their way through nostrils to the insides, causing currents to run down one’s spine.

How does it happen that a seemingly small wave envelops an entire universe in itself? How does Destiny fail Desire every time, and dreams turn to dust before reaching the realms of fulfillment? Why do the once saintly carriers of love blaspheme the very sanctity of it – leaving souls insecure and shattered forever?

Soft rain began to pelt against the room’s window bringing back the detested realizations of reality, and with a single tear that rolled down mournfully, all wounds were washed away until next time…

Whiterose_mi

 

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2014, My Writings

Shapes~

Do you notice, even today, how the clouds take form of a monster outside your balcony? Do you see the evil man, smiling slyly between a cigar in his mouth; the old woman bent with a stick and bread; the large, gigantically large bird in a flight? Do you see two teddy bears cuddling? Does it amuse you? Do you see a girl writing in a pad, a lamp lit close by, and some crumpled letters in a dustbin? Does it worry you how the newborn’s cradle swings empty?

Do you hear the nightingale singing? Do you smell Jasmines, and the night queens in bloom? Do you write poems? Do you paint it? Do you preserve your moments in a photograph? Or do you, at least, just inhale it in a way it etches in your memory to never leave? Do you think of me?

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