Friends


I’ve become sensitive and sentimental, my eyes get hazy with goodbye videos, I melt with clichés, and I get excited seeing kids that insist on playing hide and seek on the road reminding me of my own childhood. I invent new measures to fit myself in boundaries until I surpass them.

I feel strong and distant from material objects and people who keep fascinating my thoughts for a common life and insist on reminding me of their existence through small everyday movements and newly adopted habits. Through fresh images, unconnected to my previous lives, they manage to bring back smiles out of nowhere that I find difficult to explain and pass across without the use of verbal aids.

Any bad history has vanished from the minute I freed myself to the present and trusted the person I had forgotten inside me. I can’t stop smiling because I am changing; I see it in the laughter and the embrace of the surroundings, in the delightful receptiveness of my being, without glitters, nude and alone, unitary and unique, like each one of you.

It took me a while to see the world entirely in my own eyes, with optimism and idealism. The people that I call my friends like to crack jokes on me saying that I am miles away from reality, that my thoughts are feasible and applicable only in utopic worlds. We all know though that there are times when they envy my courage and give me their consent to drag them out of their waters with my words and actions.

The people I call my friends, I adore them the more with every new day because they allow me to dream and they guilefully wink at me when they chicken out, but they dare to trust me.

Advertisements

Untitled


Memories, wandering troubadours in the familiar cobbled roads of yesterday dress the present in notes of the cold soul. The water, weavered on pompous looms, bows on the paws of the world. Forgotten souls in the waste trying in vain to save the just that’s drowning in muddy and unjust depths. And the sirens of our youth, old whores, sauntering stray through fainting lights. I try to save myself from your eyes that lusciously suck me deep inside them; I find myself in lodges of the lunatics, and pain is both light and dark. My sight is empty today, it doesn’t focus anywhere, it doesn’t aim and the chums on the way have jaded. With my shadow as a companion on the uphill, strolling deep in my mind through souls I never acquainted, resting the sight of the world. Memories melt dancing like ice tucked in the sun, worn out moments sweating, trying to live a little. Somewhere inside us vagrant dreams stuck in poor docks, vagabonds plunged into a wake, surveying the lie in the horizon. For there are explanations that can only be felt and never said. For there are people who manage to put up with our differences, our tortuous and our wry bits, our good and our lousy times. Alas, how alike are pleasure and grief. Only with steps faster than decay can we survive.

“It seems that somewhere people are celebrating;
although there are no houses or human beings
I can listen to guitars and other laughters which
are not nearby

Maybe far away, within the ashes of heavens
Andromeda, the Bear, or the Virgin…

I wonder; is loneliness the same, all over the
worlds ? ” (Odysseus Elytis, Calendar of an Invisible April)

The Castaway

Can’t sleep tonight again, no surprise. So I’ve been lying in bed listening to music going through the archives of my mind. Out of the blue I randomly decided I wanted to leave short messages and drawings on all my pound/soon to be euro notes.

That will become my personal way of protest, few words, an image, a symbol, on a paper that no one is going to ruin. A piece of paper that changes hands without discrimination between race, class, gender, ideology, looks. This will be my very own, personal, quiet, little hijackings of the everyday life. An act that’s criminally prosecuted!

I hope that one day someone who truly needs it will find my message. Just like I do.

Failed Paradigms

I don’t know if I could ever count love, because love as well is one of the thousand mind games we give ourselves the chance to play. In the past I wanted to play with you because I found it was leading me to new paths, tempting, and provocative. I discovered life through colours and scents, I built images and acquainted the microcosmi of people around me…and I left, and you were gone.

I returned to nature. The mother of everything, to look for you, to research. I hid in it, slipped in her miracles, enjoyed the life she gave me. I got lost smiling under the sun, looked for the moon but your eyes had stolen it. I forgot myself in distant beaches, I travelled to high mountain tops, where human touch is unobtainable and I took you with me as a thought, to carry, to grow up next to, to search for new depths, new skies. To run next to the waves, to risk again, to challenge my luck, to reach my edge. I am not looking for limits, I am creating ways to cross them, I search myself, I learn myself, I lose myself, I accept myself, I swear at it and find it all over again; and I am convinced that I haven’t seen nearly enough, the best are yet to come.

Moves need be quicker, more adroit, better aimed, more courageous. Survival strategies in a new world. I want you, if you still remember that. I am sure you do. I never asked you what you were waiting for; I just acted on my own instead, as I understood it and as I felt it. I never got over you, I just got used to your absence. I never forgot you; I just snubbed myself and never forgave me. I still trust my acts on the basis of an instant rationalistic thought, but what a fucking theory that is…

I remember a friend’s line warning me that when the wind of change blows, some built shelters and others windmills. I am here, but not there. I don’t want to turn back time, I want to live everything from the beginning in a game when not only is there no injury time but in which along with the rules we also stroke out the referee. There is never a need for foul or/and last whistle between us.

I hate the night. It emits a melancholy. I am starring all this time at a tiny moon from my window trying to understand why we have connected it with the dark. It emits such brightness that the human soul never will. I escape one trap and I fall in the next one, the bigger one, I am thinking. We will never say any of what we wanted to say, of what we should say. How can you talk about what you understood and did these years; about having lost your sleep and stayed behind? About how there were dawns when you were alone, shattered, on the street, while all your mates slept early? What is the point of saying you kissed a stray dog in the mouth on the day when you loved the whole world? Or that you have seen the water of your soul pouring though your worn out knees? That you had seen your dreams with your bare eyes and you have yet to overcome the shock?

To the mutilitation of the body when the bed orphans and the presence of someone else haunts your sadness with ghosts – images that have remained. They always come unanticipated and obstinate playing games with my own dreams. In periods of a catholic anorexia, I found a shelter on the way and within the abasement of my lonely dinner.

I was longing for what I desired but didn’t manage to have due to my idleness or the circumstances. That is why I like aimless wandering, writing, lack of conversant. Everything was outside of me. Then I stopped seeing. It wasn’t exactly dark; it was a peculiar light I had never seen before. My body’s quanta released.

This coterie doesn’t seem that terrifying after all. I felt I still had some distance to cover, some ford dragging me to something new. The old got lost; I was a bird, a fish without memory. I found myself in salty waters, transparent to the bone, a gulf and a sea, same salinity, same expanse. Unabashed, calm, eudemon, the field of the strong had depleted. This time was different from the rest and the fires of love blind. A war may look like a game when you’re a kid but love is the last barrier without rules before maturing.

In reality, you never came as many times as I passed through your haunts, you never picked up as many times as I pretended I called. Shame.

Love and death have the same anticipation. It’s just that they are not equally reliable.

There was a strange sun today that burnt my eyes. I was hoping for a rain, a flurry nothing more, just like the one inside me, barely to keep me quiet; a rain to wipe out what I feel, to wash out my sorrow, to clean me, to sanctify me. But mostly I wished for you, to always have a tailwind against your mast when outside of my world.

Some nights are without dawn and not even in this infinite time did we manage to meet with our truths and our wants yet again.

When will luck smile at me again, our life paths cross and find each other in the same dream opening the door wide to gaze at all this that we knavishly peek through a chink?

Some other nights are also without dawn and some dreams remain half to torture, hiding truths inside them, desires and passions that we try to exorcise via logic and ‘’musts,’’ not even letting them live in the same dream.

Surviving in ones own terms is a luxury, and lucky are the ones who can afford it.

The Bucket List

To say a ”no” and a ”yes” which you will always remember. As long as they marked someone else too. The ”no’s” and “yes’s” that only you remember are useless.

To drink a bottle of fine wine to the bottom. Alone. If someone, with whom you have nothing really to share, asks to share it with you, buy them a beer.

To light up a cigarette under the rain, looking up the sky. Thinking that all these clouds  are the breath of your own cigarette, smiling while the rain is washing the smoke off your mouth.

To listen with your one lost infinite love, to this and this. With phones, lights, and blinds shut. Without exchanging a word. Even if you go to other houses afterwards. It’s the houses’ fault that they’re apart, not yours.

To drive for hours on your way to deliver an apology in person, even if it is trashed. If you want, you can pick it up from the garbage and use it later. At another destination.

To let your children see you as you were when sixteen. Don’t ever be ashamed, stand “nude” in front of them; they might love you some day because you too were once a normal person. Even if they don’t love you, they will laugh at your foolishness to pretend the teenager for them.

To cry, if you feel the need, without saying “never again”. These words don’t exist.

To make someone cry if you think they are worthy. Not by being silent. By speaking out, not everyone can be kind and tender in this world. If you really love them, give them something to wipe the tears away, and take it back because you will need to give it to them again.

To kill your bad self every day  and to pull the pieces back together at night, like some other Frankenstein. In time you will learn to glue them back together with your eyes shut.

To make love even once without opening your eyes. And if they are bothered, tell them you are thinking of how they were in their 20’s. Or 20 years ago. Be prepared for what will follow, and accept it stoically.

To wander aimlessly. And after two hours not to remember anything. To go back. To leave again. To empty and return. Like a tanker. Irrespectively of content, as long as you discharge. To be able to load up again.

To drive at night listening to your favourite CD. Then go back home and burn another one. And another one. As you grow older you realise that tracks with the same soundtrack become dull.

To make a bucket list before you die. Erase what you have achieved. Leave it somewhere that can be easily found by those left behind to realise with what a toad they had to do. And to bitterly laugh -maybe even maliciously- at the fact that you didn’t manage to complete it.

Unfinished business, as always…

A post birthday Jibber Jabbar

August 2009, and I am in my room, on my bed, thinking, writing. It was my birthday recently and I turned twenty-three. Twenty-three years that have gone by, are we supposed to reflect and make our brief chronicle every year these days, I wonder. Am I growing old? No one could ever argue this. Then again, the majority of world’s population doesn’t make it to my age. Am I maturing? I hope I am, but not too much. It is scary, so much time we spend in this world, so many things we see, meet, experience, live through, allow to live through us, how much do we really amass and assemble out of it all? And how much of it do we actually recollect.

Throughout these twenty-three years, I was a child and I became a grown up. Ok, maybe some of you will ridicule and mock me for using such terminology. Alright, I admit it, I am barely a grown up, but I will use it as a euphemism for what I am. I no longer play in the yard with my friends. I no longer throw water balls, or watch Captain Planet. Fine, fine, I still watch Captain Planet, but you get my point. Now my biggest problem in the world is not how to skip class or fool my French teacher to avoid the lesson. My everyday schedule does not comprise of school, play, violin, sports, and sleep any more. The years went by, the careless child grew up to be an equally, or almost equally, carefree adult; what has changed? I have, as difficult as this may be to believe sometimes. In character, spirit, conviction. The clay of course remains the same, but it has been molded into multiple different shapes and forms in time. By whom?

People. How strange of me to admit this, but people are those who actually change us. It seems that we are never as rigid as we like to believe or claim. Subconsciously even, every single individual that enters our own personal sphere may alter it, forever. Reminds you a bit of the butterfly effect? Well, ever since I was a child I was fond of the chaos theory, it is after all this desire and magnetism of the unknown which can never be cured. So many people come and go through our life, however long this journey may be for each. Almost each one of them leaves his/her print on what we like to call our soul; some lighter, some deeper. How many of those we actually hold on to, and how many we let go, lose, or even merely allow drifting apart. What was I doing this day 10 years ago? Who was I with? I cannot even vaguely remember. So many things change in our lives throughout time, so rapidly, that I sometimes wonder if we may even catch a quick glimpse of it all. People come and people go, an everlasting perpetual motion, almost Heracletian, is the structure of our life. Unique moments, which, after some time, seem so familiar or so foreign and groundless that constitute fragments of our own existence.

‘’Finis origine pendet’’, the end depends upon the beginning. I wonder how much truth this upholds. And if it does, how has my beginning been? I surely started off with great ambition and conquest, with successes and failures, with good and bad deeds. But all this without contribution is without significance. The worth of a life is not to be determined by a single slump or a solitary gest. So much effort do we put in our life to make something out of it, why? Are we afraid of every ending? Strange, because man has the power inside him to hope and try. And, subconsciously overcomes all hornets’ nest and does not yield. Thus he turns the end into a beginning in all levels and aspects; even in death. Those who set the pillars of all religion defined death as the beginning of eternal life. In the ultimate cul-de-sac we gave ourselves an alternative. A beginning, something endless and infinite. But what happens with our feelings that get hurt every time an ending is in sight. That is mostly a defence, I think. Self-defence against the time you spent, the time you devoted to what is ending. If it were over painlessly, it wouldn’t leave an imprint, you wouldn’t have experiences, it wouldn’t make you wiser. And wisdom, experiences, you need them. They make you a better person. Besides, we always have the strength to pay the price. We never give up. We cough up and move on. We turn the end into a beginning, even when in pain. We close the circle. Circle, it simply defines our life. Without bumps, angles, ragged lines. It closes protectively around us; it connects our edges; it postpones our pessimism; it gives a sequel to our ending. And the game begins again..