PS. YOURS SINCERELY

Letters to myself, part IV – Wayfaring.

2011-11-07T22:16:00.003+01:00

-i.
i drew a picture

on my wall

today.

i drew a picture

of the way you could look at me.

i drew a picture

on my floor

yesterday.

i drew a picture

of the way you could smile at me.

i drew a picture

on my bed

last night.

i drew a picture

of the way you could love

my curves.

-ii.

these were the thoughts you never gave to me.

these were the moments that we shared alone.

these were the scars that you gave me

when you were not around.

-iii.

i can still remember

how you would hold your hand

quietly resting

your index finger

not fully bend.

i never quite understood why

perhaps it was just for importance

or perhaps you had broken

the bone

before my time.

-iv.

you went away and returned

as somebody else and

i went away and never came back.

-v.

you told me i was being adored

and i questioned you so

feverishly.

you said not to worry.

i could tell by the way you

devoured her so easily.

i thought of you with such intense

and deep passion

like writing love letters

which you never send me back.

i guess you owe me.

-vi.

i was romeo.

and i was juliet.

and i knew it all

and i saw it coming

and yet i never turned my back.

i waited for the blow to come

for the picking of black birds that

dove down on top of me.

i waited for the words to come out

for the words that hit the skin

and crushed the bone.

i waited for the recognition

of the failure we were.

for the fool i had been.

-vii.

and i’m going down you with

down with you

wayfaring

slowly, silently,

quietly contemplating.

away from you.

P.S.

this is as deep as i’ve gone before. this is as deep as iwanna go. send these pigeons on their way, fly them back home towards the past.goodbye goodbye goodbye. it's been too long.

Letters to myself, part III - Skeleton.

2011-10-26T18:09:00.001+02:00

shehad slender feet and crooked toes.

shecut her toenails too short – too close to the core where flesh met bone andwhere veins were mapped in sweet chivalry. the skin was dusty and stapled,improperly held together - just like everything else in her life – but shewould move swiftly and running. there was a scar on the right side of herextremity; darker of colour with rugged edges and retraceable lines.

thebone was bended in shame and rejection, the force of gravity slowly pulling itdown until they dug in the earth. disfigured and dismembered, shoes would notfit – not even when hot leather is carefully wrapped around her ankles, tryinghopelessly to shape to her curves.

shehad slender feet and crooked toes – she broke her skeleton twice too often.

i sawher sitting at the station, grey pavement stones and dwelling garbage clashingwith her fragile appearance of tidiness and originality. her red coat displacedthoroughly, surrounded by strangers with compelling reflections as they lookedright through her. she sat on a bench marked by coffee stains and white powder– sugar, maybe or maybe grinded bones – the green coating had started to abandonthe wooden structure, leaving chips of colour behind on a colourlesshymn of stone and lines.

she hadlong and slender fingers – a ring on her right index – carried all the way toher face, her elbows crooked at the right place. she put her make up on inorder to conform, but truth be told she must have known it was just a futileattempt to hide the mask she wore so proudly. her blonde hair bended nicelywith the flow of the wind that carried unfamiliar sights of puberty. icalculated the probability: she would have not seen many rebellious nights. shewas most likely the eldest, the wise, the good.

hadn’tthey told her that good girls eventually, always, turn bad?

evincingshades and singeing and scorching they make their way through static noisesteadfast and with no tremble, hovering through smoke and making marbles out ofstone – turning marrow into liquid. she had hurt her foot against the steps ina consoling attempt to hide from claws and twisted grasps. her feetaccidentally slipped into the abyss and now – now it hurt.

shewas leaving a trail of blood drops.

hertoes curled at the sound of metal being twisted in order of the superiority ofhomo sapiens and their talent to be innovative (they made things to carry theirheavy loading. easy. simplicity. arrogance). the soles of her sandals nearlybroken in half as they obeyed her desire to winch and yet fear never entered inthe view of her retina. she had painted her toenails black. they matched withthe colour of her scarf – her eyes being from a deep brown colour – and herjeans found their origin in the palette of the sky.

thescars are back. the scars are back.

shewasn’t sure who to be; a conflict of interest accompanied by multiplepersonalities that charged her mind like an invincible army. i could tell bythe way she wore her clothes – hugging her curves tightly and yet detachingthemselves from her skin as if not wanting to be here. her blonde hair did notfit well with the redness of her lips. her squared glasses castedprofessionalism. the words on her shirt were screaming insubordination.

anddespite being surrounded by a society of secrets, she was alone and singledout, not quite fitting into the clockwork. perhaps she was the hand that toldthem the time, perhaps she was the glitch inside the mechanisms of non-deviantbehaviour.

tomorrowwill be better, she must have thought, when stars no longer collide with coldcement and when wolves stop howling at the scent of the moon. bittersweet, shethought. bittersweet and shaking bones. she slipped back into the all toofamiliar rhythm and let herself be spun around by its loving force – oh she hadlet go so long ago.

shehad found other ways to please her desire, her need for pain and discomfortnow. she had found other ways to dissect her joints and splinter herexoskeleton. she learnt to split her skin with a single movement and dispose ofthe trace within false clarity.

lookmum, look mum –

nohands.

P.S.

the skeletonis the body part that forms the supporting structure of an organism. i couldn’tbreak it from the inside. let us start on the outside, beginning with briefbelief, ectodermal tissue, scar tissue and skin pigmentation.

Darling.

2011-10-26T18:09:00.000+02:00

darling,i am cold
cold as the flakes that fall
on a crisp winter's morning
at the crest of dawn
and i wonder.
i think of you,

asstrangers take interest

inthe things that i do.

Alive.

2011-10-12T15:30:00.001+02:00

you lay still and

contemplating,

watching cardboard boxes

turn into paper birds

and sinking boats.

slowly

fall down and

you think

you are alive.

there are postcards

missing

in this

story

and his kisses

tickle your back.

those days are

losing their reminiscence

of quiet summer

days

and careful

winter strokes.

billowing underneath the

weight of

thoughts and

barefoot memories

there you lay with

ginger hair and

freckles

dashed over your

clavicles.

hold on to

your words of poetry.

you wondered what

would

happen

if you threw your

life

on the floor

as you think

you’re alive.

careful,

restlessly breathing

a pounding heart and

rising chest as

the mind lingers obsessively

choosing not to

that you’re alive

but just

not here.

P.S.

i need you. i want you. don’t go. come back. stay here.

oh dear.

please help me, my thoughts are lost.

The First of July.

2011-09-17T17:19:00.002+02:00

July first. 2010.

July first. 2007.

it was the first time she saw you. the first time she had been blessed with lying her eyes on your delicate face, your scent a memory of autumn and peaches. she commits to you instantly – in a heartbeat, and knows that you’re the spinal cord. she will never let go.

and so forth, she reclaims distinctive territory from behind black eyelashes and stolen photographs. she hides behind ignorance, unimportant faces and shields herself from such a messy risk of failure. she waited. oh.

she waited. until neon light illuminated the smoke and you found her standing there. just standing there. watching you, with that blustering expectancy melted in-between the cracks of her skin. you found her captivating. you found her blissful and eternal.

July first. 2008.

carefully, you provoked her membrane and taunted her dreams with simply your presence. she was lost in corridors and straight alleyways, dissecting pavement stones whilst reading Shakespeare , her shadow wailing around in the limelight. neon radiation poisoned your face. you looked alien. she should have known you were such a dreadful, handsome catalyst.

you captured her eyes and made her spin in circles. you secretly played with her hair and turned it into a susurrus that gently wept past her pale clavicles. you spoke logic and she talked religion – the insightful thoughts that she could be black and you would be white and you would match so perfectly together, folded in a dusty desk drawer.

you always sat behind her, chose the air right behind her sense and desperately tried to count the lines on her back.

July first. 2009.

the summer sun set your back on fire, freckles dashed across your shoulder blades, and you were so willing to let her caress the skin. she could feel you, smell you, hear you, as you laid skin to skin with your bluish eyes darted around the first leaves that coloured her hair. she counted the freckles – one-thousand, one-thousand-and-one.

you cupped her face, as if holding her life, and melted her to the bone. you waited until she put on her make-up and then you kissed her eyelids in an self-indulging moment, hearing the eminence of her heartbeat. she was so tender, you were so cold and shivering. when doves escaped the darkness that came, you feared that she would open her eyes and see right through you.

and yet she knew better, than to catch burning cigarette.

July first. 2010.

she’s gathering bits and unsorted pieces of her life, trying aimlessly and effortlessly to tape it all back together. she had hoped that someone could have told her to halt her futile attempts. she drowned in Shakespeare and was grinding her teeth – oh dear despair - when reading Bentham. rationality. how poor he had to have been.

blaming God for everything he had done wrong, she wondered carelessly why it just had to be you.

July first. 2011.

she would come to this moment for the rest of her prolonged life. she would follow the pebbles until they moulded into the sea and she would wait and stare and oh, she would wait and stare. she would find herself on the corner of dreams and reality and take the wrong turn thoughtfully. smile. hello, love.

for the many years to come, she would hold your memory in a tiny glass vessel and carry it around her neck, pulling her down. she would grow grey and intolerant, missing out on everything she might have been destined for. she counted down the hours until nightfall would come and she could dream of you.

you turn dark. and one morning she woke up feeling so damned punctuated. you were nothing more but a distant dream, as you left her standing there under the neon light.

and she wondered, why people wanted to live for centuries when those centuries did not contain you.

Backwards pathology.

2011-08-09T10:45:00.000+02:00

01.00
my hands dug down, deeper, deeper, deeper, until i found a hole in the earth. would i have fallen down, i would have made it into the heart of the earth. birds were silenced by a blinding darkness, whereas red and blue wolves (their eyes lit like little orbs) chased their tails in search of the moon. black leather was boldly formed around my hands – leave no trace, leave no trace. i dug – down – deeper, deeper, deeper.

darling.

24.00
the fire was hot and bewildered, stretched around like arms that once again found a lover’s embrace. slick fingers traced the cracks in his skin, smoothly – a tongue running up and down her back. his eyes were bright and empty; hollow like the echoes screamed in Darknet’s cave. a misty layer of white had formed over his once chocolate brown eyes.

oh. he looked so much better now.

even if, that meant the smoke lifted itself, crumbled daisies and tulips and attempted to melt her fragile airways.

23.00
unless you’re Sherlock Holmes and talk to black birds, you would not know that this is an alternative universe (we fall upwards, not down) and clocks tick backwards, not forwards. darling.

10.00
a rugged blade would dissect his torso as blood cells were airborne until landing on her bare chest. time was a co-existing factor that could not bother her amygdala; surely, not even paper leaves would be able to part her from her focus. time of death, cause of death – was anything not related to being heartlessly cold and frozen in time? grey coffee stains would dash around on your skin; freely and tormenting as death slowly swallowed you whole.

21.00
time was such a callous thing. darling.

20.00
careful now, make no mistake. i am a cat, not a mouse. don’t follow the cheese, follow the rat. plan it wisely, thoroughly. combine intelligence with a deadly wit. appearance is just another flaw in a media-created mind.

.. . ..
heroes come and go. they never strode towards victory, they claimed it. it had to be the only secret to success. yet as Daedalus taught the people from Greece; people were not meant to fly. or, perhaps, he was God and created Icarus to our image. i smiled.

she took her time, like i always did. and this was not my first, like she always knew.

an unknown amount of days before.
he had been easy and futile – hardly a match to fight a bottomless tiger. i had always complained that people were so simple. simple minded and grey – dust in the wind and specks on a freshly painted wall. nature claimed it as her own. after death came fire and then the earth.

we all return to ash.

darling.

P.S.
date of birth.
changed and chased, i knew. for all eternity, for who i was. i adored it and could not wait to count the blood spatter on your bedroom wall.

i had always wondered what if felt like, to be a face on the six o’clock news with a little black bar across my eyes.

I think I might keep you (here)

2011-08-09T10:38:00.000+02:00

you always were such a futile thing. rugged

and cracks in the surface, white stuffing coming from your
chest like you were an abandoned stuffed bear, left behind on a busy
dirt road.

-----------------------------

heartbroken and damaged like an old ship set at sea –
with holes in cotton sails and rusty fingernails. the crests of waves torment you indirectly, swinging you from left to right until they drag you down. darkness beckons
(‘hello there, sailor’)
and faces are set adrift. memories float out in the open sea and wait for seagulls to pick them up.

you always were such a futile thing; now torn between the teeth of a blue sardine.

all aboard!

-----------------------------

she always was such a distant dream.

dissipated in mid-air, hollow and soundless like aging English oak. sitting in a
deceased rocking chair in the corner of a room beneath the shadows of framed, non-existing
moments.
ghostly in appearance with the smell of grey hair
and ginger tea.
minty. with a trace of orange. poured into porcelain cups with dancing cats and such sweet history. pages are filled with hints of hope and fading ink –
unwritten love letters never sent to mend a paper heart.

--------------------------------

sunflowers bow to bestow upon the sun and they grow little sun-seeds to be planted in the darkest of places. clocks will end their ticking sound when echoes finally reverberated through the hands – the hands that stole the numbers and shipped them out,
into a far unknown.
but there! just over the growing horizon.

--------------------------------

dare not to step on shattered glass – molecules will come after blood cells and Newton pulls them down. gravity had always been such a mystery; even a blind eye couldn’t see. and yet behold this fantasy –
hand drawn postcards in seashells and all their faces captured in self-blown bottles. explore their facial lines until nothing is uncovered. a ten inch blade, will do the trick,
perhaps.
use chemical weapons to alter their appearance and they might feel strong enough to leave their house.
again.

--------------------------------

wailing and crawling right out
in the open sea. this is where we
belong. this is where dreams come true.

--------------------------------

i woke up this morning, surprisingly, with mockingbirds on the windowsill. they sang me songs about sailors lost at sea and old ladies waiting –
while sipping tea; in houses where we were meant to be.

--------------------------------

i found you in a paper cup.
i think i might keep you here.

Dear Diary - the end

2011-05-09T16:00:00.000+02:00

With the creation of www.ae-creative.net in my fingertips, I have decided to move all photography to my (own) new site. It is still under construction but you will soon find my stills that portray the world there.

See you soon, see you there.

Love me ASAP. P

2011-04-03T21:43:00.000+02:00

dear quiet little rosemary beads, with your purple lights fading out quickly and your false smell delighting this room made of cardboard boxes and empty sunlight. that is all you left me. there were no broken moons or distant hollow wolves chasing it. no stars that would paint their pictures onto heaven for me to wish upon. there was no comet's tail at the crash of dawn that could tell me when the world would end.

and i keep on running

until we’re running out of time.

polychromatic thoughts endured for countless of hours and the grains of sand in a faded hourglass got distressed and lost it all – they fell upwards and sideward but refused to let me know how long you have been gone. they say you can die from a broken heart, or at least from the lack of oxygen in red blood cells as arteries unfold into paper birds.

lay still and hide, love

until we’re running out of time.

the sun was aching as we twitched in a deep unknown itch. careful, don’t develop cancerous blisters as you try to scratch its back but burn your lips and never share love with her shade again. tell me no more lies because i know shadows don’t only exist in my head and the monsters underneath my silk-layered bed are real. i had nothing better to do thus i carved little black balloons into my floating rib and instead of shifting consciousness i have decided to mutate into ulcers in your stomach.

at least then you won’t forget me

until we’re running out of time.

people say you are such a young soul (whereas mine is elder, too dark and shrunk between fault lines and wrinkles) and i was scribbling little love letters down with colourless chalk on cold pavement stone. perhaps that is why you’re suffering from religion and i disembark systematic impulses to swim instead of drown. sure. flick into my life and roll back out – just make sure to follow the line and conquer magnetic tsunami waves. yes dear. in this self-indulging moment i realise; you always could walk on water.

it all seems so carelessly eminent

until we run out of time.

oh. but truth be told, God said it didn’t really count that nostrils have never really been caressed by the scent of my hair and skin cells have been neglected for many years. eyes have never caught mutual radiation and therefore you are once again, merely just a dream filled with sensory impressions. .

i'm leaving, with just a bag of polaroids
i satisfied your needs whenever

the clock ran out of time.

P.S.

futile attempts. yes. i know dear.

Drunken politics.

2011-03-24T20:46:00.003+01:00

i got too drunk and swayed and swiveled around and on purpose i accidentally spilled sweet liquor all over my sheets and now i can't read the words anymore and oh-

where to begin where to end where to start where to feel…

i wish so many things; to acquire profound knowledge and never having to worry. yes, i wouldn’t mind wearing glasses and put my hair in ponytails and have people laugh and stare whilst they paint abstruse words on my back. i would know it all and would never have to fear speaking actual words out loud in class again. i could travel back to the fifteenth (1-5) century and politely sweep the floor with Hobbes’ theories because he was right.

oh so right.

or, perhaps, he got too drunk and stumbled and howled at the moon and accidentally on purpose spilled the sour liquid all over his shoes and then he couldn’t read his mind anymore and oh-

perhaps he was wrong.

oh.

deep sigh, take a breath, continue forward, slow motion dogs.

oh.

Crooked stones and radiation coins.

2011-03-23T10:29:00.003+01:00

i left you a coin made of tinfoil and bronze medallions and i placed it in the

middle

of the

street.

i wrote a letter to God, used white pigeons as homers for them to fly high into the sky, past the stars and the gaping moon, deep into a serenity no man has ever dreamt of. i asked him if he could re-write your

fate

so that one day, you will tumble upon my lost and profound sins.

i told him that i was bleeding and willing to wait for all eternity, until radios would sing and frogs would actually turn into princes. apples turned yellow and the grapes were leaking spinal fluid and still i had not found my answer under the blanket of the sea or between several different

vertebrae.

broad shoulders were covered in a silk-like layer of sweat and muscles defined lines women dream of. skin hiding under white cotton to escape the blistering sun and the sky was brown and orange. cars made noises as they passed by into the future and a loving fog rose from

cold and rusty pavement.

people sighed. souls itched and ached with desperation. children laughed as they chased each other through universes and discovered worlds that did not exist.

for years i did not know how to spell calamity. but now that i have endured the feeling of

shifting

cells, i understand what it means and broke my ribs so i could rearrange them. i now have been entitled ‘medical miracle’, though some confuse it for ‘medical mystery’, as those with x-ray eyes now know how to spell calamity,

too.

but be still, the night is still young and under bleak stars i know the fog will lift until airborne. the sun will lose his white-hot whip that clashed onto bare backs and soon, you will pass that one stone that is crooked, measured along the lines of

landslides.

perhaps you will stop to wonder why black and white daisies grow from between the cracks.

alas, finally, then the sun will have listened to God and solar radiation is reflected into your careless eye. you catch the coin that was thrown down from heaven, made of gold and air, and ignore the tinfoil and bronze medallions made coin, that rested underneath your

feet.

P.S.

love stories were never meant to end happily-ever-after. we should read more of Shakespeare and learn from the mistakes of Romeo and Juliet. or, possibly, we are just mere humans and we were never meant to record sunshine. if i were to pretend to be dying, perhaps we just might.

Radical Honesty - Phrase eleven.

2011-03-21T12:18:00.003+01:00

"Dear God."

As a smoker, I have heard the line ‘Smoking kills’ so many bloody times, I am out of witty replies. Which must be a first. At first, I would talk about the essay I wrote for my English class years ago, about the hypocritical meaning of the warning labels on cigarette packs. I had all the data. It was a good, strong essay (rewarded with an A+ too). Abdominal cancers killed more people than smoking did in 2005. But that was 2005. We’re living in 2011 now. The data is old, I can’t use it anymore. So I used the sun (skin cancer), cars (3,287 car accident related deaths every day), air pollution and if I were heartless, I could use Japan and earthquakes, tsunamis and nuclear power plants.

But I am not (completely) heartless, so I’ll stick to the whole ‘if I were to die tomorrow, at least I’ll die knowing I’ve smoke a cigarette and enjoyed it’ line. It works. Sometimes. Not always, but it works. The usual retort is ‘You’re not going to die tomorrow’, to which I can only reply ‘You’ll never know’. They say the world is going to end on 12-21-2012. I say ‘Let’s party’.

Suffering from a creative mind and being visually orientated, I couldn’t help but think of it during my morning fag. I could totally picture it in my head. I had died (possibly from lung cancer, could be because I once again missed a step on the stairs and plummeted to my death or I’ve been run over by a bus) and was walking up a staircase made of clouds. Everything was white and calm and serene. I can’t help but wonder if ‘heaven’ (if it exists) would look like this. I don’t think so.

At the top of the stairs, I would meet John Malkovich. He would be God. Or Allah. Or the old guy across my street. Or whoever/whatever is upstairs (if there is anyone). He would smile upon me, white light shining bright behind him, giving him the whole ‘holy look’. And he would ask me; ‘How was your life?’

“Well. Dear God. John. I drank too much coffee. But some of the best conversations I had were ignited over a cup of coffee. I thank you for creating Starbucks, by the way. I have always hated you for not giving me a supermodel body, yet I am so grateful I with this set of brains I have. I have not partied till the late hours of the night enough (thanks for that as well), but loved those parties that I did went to. I have been fairly intoxicated numerous times and snogged too many guys that I wouldn’t have kissed if I were sober. I have been in conflict with myself too many times, but in the end I know myself, I know what’s best and I know how to ruminate about the right choices. I have made wrong choices, too, but I have learnt from all of them. I have had days in which I didn’t know how to get out of bed, but the day before was always worth it. I have been criticised for my sarcasm but always laughed at my own (sarcastic) jokes. I have skipped classes to do homework and learn because I once again spent my entire weekend at the hockey club. I have cheated on tests and always gotten away with it. The rush was awesome and I have never been pleased with my grades. I have smoked some weed, experimented wisely with drugs and have not regretted it. I have done stupid things, yet I have rightfully earned my ‘crazy’ status and laughed my head off most of the time. I have not seen the world, I have not been to places where I wanted to go most dearly, but then again I have done things that weren’t on the list and I’m glad I’ve done them. I have smoked way, way too many cigarettes, spend too much money on them, ignoring the warnings and even collecting the warning labels on the packages, but I’ve met the greatest people while doing that and have smoked every cigarette with joy.”

And so God stared down on me, silent and contemplating. Then he smiled again and wondered. “Have you had a good life?”

(Giggling at my own thoughts, I light another cigarette).

“Yes. I have.”

I have been raised by a fantastic mother that believes us humans are trying everything to prolong our lives. We have to do this and this in order not to die. We can’t do this or that, or we will die. I share that same believe and fear controls my mind and I see my generation, or the generation after that, live till they are two-hundred years old. The warning ‘Smoking kills’ is perhaps, to me, just an invitation.

The serial professor - Drabbles from the nutty student

2011-03-16T21:13:00.005+01:00

No. 2

Most days, she never really liked herself. There was always something bothering her about herself that she hated, disgusted or disliked. But some days, some days she was happy with who she was.

Like day. Today, she was happy with herself.

One of her talents, the few the student really had developed, was watching people. Observing them, reading them, seeing those tales and little hints people subconsciously screamed at unknowing (stupid) people. She loved tearing apart their minds, dissect their personality and break it down until all she had left a humble pile of disconcerting bones, surrounded by a pointless, meaningless sack of meat. Because that was one of the few things she had learnt: it really didn’t matter how you looked in the inside. Quite often, serial killers seem heartbreakingly normal. And the most beautiful people are usually plain, dumb and shallow. All that mattered, was the inside. The inside, the mind, that hung a sign around your neck saying ‘Careful, I am a distrusting person’, or ‘Watch out, I’m a murderer in the making’. And she was glad that on days that the plain and simple human could only bore her, that she was able to use other people’s body to reveal the mind and therefore, reveal the sign.

She feverishly bobbed up and down as she paced passed the rows of college banks. There was a slight jump as she walked, as like wearing shoes with springs. Perhaps she tried to make herself look taller. Because no one would take a chubby, short college professor slash researcher seriously if she could not even look the average person in the eye. The lecturer crossed her arms a lot. Probably because it was easier than leaving her arms hanging down her sides (or perhaps she was scared she would seem even more floated like a balloon because when she would hang her arm down her hips, the elbows would have to bend for they could not hang straight). It was a closed pose and the student noticed than when the professor stopped bobbing, her heels clicking against the fake wooden floor, she would turn her shoulders away from the room.

The sign was slowly revealing itself. She was not an open person. Perhaps hurt in the past, but definitely afraid to get hurt. By men. But that conclusion could simply be led by the anti-romantic stories in her head; men always hurt women. Then again; she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. And she wasn’t wearing a special necklace either. Yet there was a huge red flower pinned to her grey jacket.

Oh God, she thought, now she’s talking about Valentine’s Day. Perhaps she trying to even out and win us over by a better second half of this two hour lecture. She claims to have a partner. The student didn’t want to believe it, but there was a small smile across the professors lips that was definitely an indicator of happy memories. Recent, memories.

She continued to walk up and down. The bob had decreased. Perhaps she started to feel more comfortable. More often she folded her hands in front of her swollen stomach. The most logical conclusion the student could draw from this, was that when she talked ‘small talk’ or lightly, she was more in her element. But when getting back to business, she turned into a stern, professional dictator. She wondered if she would actually live up to the rules she had set for the large group of students before her. She didn’t believe she would.

They never did.

The sign started whispering. Serious, driven, (try to be) professional. She had experience, but the girl figured it was mostly theoretical. In research. Not in the field. Not a lot, anyway.

She would not be able to handle herself in a fight. As soon as she would realise she was losing the discussion, she would call upon that awful thing called ‘conscience’. She would use her skills to call upon the feeling normal people were born with; that righteous feeling. The urge to be political correct. She could do that, the student thought, she could. If she was a serial killer, she would be sadistic; a classis narcissist. She would not physically hurt people, but she would kill them softly by using their mind against them. Those killers were the most frightful, the most terrifying. And no one would suspect her because her face was moulded in a round shape, with high cheekbones, chubby cheeks and sharp eyes placed wide. Then again, her nose was straight and with a pointy chin like hers, she could as well be.

Secret love across the lecture room - Drabbles from the nutty student.

2011-03-16T21:11:00.004+01:00

No. 1

Pillars arched in half bows that lifted the ceiling and supported a dance floor of lights. Flower ornaments decorated the brown-orange pillar, a strange colour she thought, as they submerged from a fake wooden floor. Light brown-orange again. The entire building of the university had been restored in an unusual modern state years ago, yet this large, imposing lecture room had been kept in it’s cheap orange-yellow-y colour scheme.

A thick wall of mist hung before tall windows and enabled any view down onto the street. She could still see the flagpoles, the blue university colours waving, but that was about it.

A soft murmur rose whenever the professor paused. She was dressed in an awkward pink dress and a black jacket. Another strange combination, she figured. Her usually black-encircled eyes went over the students like a hawk, but she never lifted a finger. She looked, she twitched muscles and sent unspoken signals, but she did not parted her bleak red lips to stand up against the smothered rumble. Instead, she continued to ramble, talk about words no one else understood, lived in a world where she herself had been the dictionary, law, judge, jury and juror, and everyone else were mere objects of stupidity.

A strong hand of wind pushed aside some fog and she discovered the trees that stood on the other side of the street. They were bleak and leafless; the winter had stripped them down to their core and left them naked in exposure.

She continued to talk, compressed words together that formed sentences as she tried to teach. Perhaps someone should have told her that she failed miserably.

He sat on the other side of the room, listening, silently nodding whenever she spoke and looked in his direction, feverishly writing it all down, his cup of coffee placed on his book, fine-liner placed in his left hand. Left-handed, she noticed, and in her mind she nodded at herself as in approving. He smiled whenever she looked at him – which she did a lot. His eyes followed her movements and were the only ones witnessing the flow of the words. Only he could follow. At certain points, he feverishly penned along with her words, occasionally looking up as if checking if she was seeing he paid attention and was taking notes.

The professor glanced at her. She quickly lost attention in the man on the other side and pretended to apply for the perfect student award. But as soon as the dark-encircled eyes went back over the room again, she continued to do what she was best at; observe. And notice those things that others didn’t see.

The boy on the other end of the long stretched, curved school bank was in fact, she thought, very much like herself. They both saw things that nobody else did.

The fog rested before the windows again and battled a long lost fight against the faint warmth that the students in the room produced. Perhaps she should have studied physics.

There they went again. It was like a dance. Instead of dressed in a dodgy brown corduroy jacket and a cheap-looking dark pair of jeans, mismatching the colour in his green, blue and yellow striped shirt, he would be wearing a black three-piece suit, the fabric of the deepest, darkest black and impeccably clean. A nice, clean, bright white dress shirt and a small, modest black bow tie placed like the cherry on top of the cake. His shoes would have been recently polished, shining in the faint light that came from scented candles.

She would lose the odd sense of pink t-shirt, the black jacket and the not-properly-fitting black dress pants and be turned just like the Beast did with Beauty, and wear a beautiful, eye-attracting red dress that hugged her curves, showing enough modest cleavage, one upper leg and broad, skinny shoulders. Make-up would conceal the dark circles and take years and years of her real age. She would be stunning, with long eyelashes and a faint trace of a blush.

And then they would dance. A tango. No – a rumba. Slow and rhythmic, suave and persuading. It would be perfect as the moonlight casted their shadow on the shimmering hard wood floor, trees would sway along with the soft beatings of the music – their leaves acting as an extra instrument – and the water would reflect the moon on their silky faces.

It would have been perfect, had they not been sitting in a large and less imposing room, with pillars arching the ceiling, with words floating undefined in the air, useless and unable to be picked up and their stolen glances so visible to the common eye.

The flexibility of words.

2011-02-04T20:54:00.001+01:00

she came to me on a cloud riddled day

a day when daisies turned blue and

the sun was too sloggy to get up

one, two, three, pop.

she said they said life’s expandable

with her arm stretched effortlessly behind her back

and her neck twisted, in an oddly curve.

one, two, three, pop.

cars crash at the crest of the moon

and silver lining at the edge of nightfall

bless their curses over random perfect strangers

one, two, three, pop.

read it all in mighty books and relive

the imaginary life in fairy-tale fantasies

because one, two, three, pop.

extend legs and limbs, find that flow

of extremities while drifting off

in a soundless sleep.

Letters to myself, part II - Missing: one heart.

2011-02-04T20:43:00.001+01:00

i am dressed like a clown and achieve to be the ethereal meaning of 'seriously' while red paint runs down my collarbone. i knew i should have taken white for the eyes, perhaps then you wouldn't notice the running streaks of the burning sun.

i am missing something.

define missing.

i am a riddle and for you to dissect it you will have to peel back the layers of stupidity like a home office pathologist. carefully remove flesh and bones and reveal the secret that my chest is just a big black hole and there is no heart. press your ear against my left little toe and possibly you can hear the steady beating drum.

i have lost my heart. have you seen it?

travel through carotid arteries to discover disco light and a dancing queen. a bad sense of humour is nowadays scientifically proven as you witness little black smiley faces giggle and they cloud my head. pupils have been dilated to see different spectrums and eyelid reaction is at warp speed to ignore all that is not worth it.

tell me, have you found it yet?

be sure to have bought a ticket as you pass infectious polluted lungs and rest your head on the soft and humming tissue to discover a world of smoke and dust. visit the scars on both left and right forearms - stop to read the little signs and learn about a story that was once called 'the titan and the reminiscent red razor blade'.

fatties make you struggle as you quickly move past abdominal bowels. some say it's a monster. others say it was never there like a bad childhood memory. just like dad, for he's never taken the tour.
once you finally reach the right leg you will notice delicate whimpers of pain and suffering and you realise you're in the wrong leg - because this is not the strongest one and it will hopefully soon come down like a house of torn up cards. travel down the left, down down down and realise there is nothing - nothing at all.

i am a bad poker game and have practiced my poker face too many times. i am dressed as a heartless clown and no one will take me seriously.

Unfinished love letters.

2011-01-02T17:06:00.003+01:00

wrap me up in the crest of plants and trees and whisper softly into my ear drums that you have lied. tell me you did not mean to and tell me that you will not race down those tracks again. convince me that it is not another one of you black-edged lies that hover over smoke – paint your own soul over again - and convince me to believe you are not God.

'cause

i am all for believing.

i am all.

for believing.

i scribbled those little words that swim in my head on broken wallpaper from left to right and started down to work my way up. i came home today to find that you are not here, you switched the m in motel and were suddenly lost and never found. i knew i should have ripped apart your paper boat and dreams so that you should not leave me. i wished that these shackles around my crisp right ankle were around yours.

i am all for believing.

for that is what i am good at.

i am all.

for believing.

create for me scavenger hunts made of red wine and torn sheets and leave me traces of little red flowers for me to follow. because i will. swiftly and smoothly, like air, i will climb over the hills that they call waves and build you dream castles in the sky that will not come down like helium balloons – red, yellow, black and blue.

i am all for believing.

because i know that is what you like.

i am all.

for believing.

believing that you were a ghost made of silver with translucent hands that never caressed my pelvic crest underneath a half-hidden moon. you told me stories about wolves and how they chased the moon and i believed you because that is why you were here and i am still.

P.S.

i know i should not be so naive like the Indians were when Columbus came and running is no option anymore. so shall i decide to rest and lay your image at peace or shall i shatter the mirror that represented us and put the pieces back together again. ‘cause i am all for believing.

all for believing.

and you say let's just leave it at that.

The deepest beat

2010-12-29T20:11:00.000+01:00

perhaps

if i were to pretend to

be dying

you would wrap your

arms around me

and

wear me like a

multi-coloured-

beaded bracelet

and my heart would

make soft ticking

sounds no -

not beating -

colliding into

all the other

pieces.

-----

i had thought about

stopping, leaving

ink dry up until

air would

lift it

towards the heat

of the sun

but then again –

it would start

raining ink and i

would have to start –

all over –

again.

-----

so i will merely

pretend you are

here in the

star-dashed fallen

sky and i will

wrap my

arms around you

and hope

that i will do no –

wrong.

P.S.

found myself in a music box floating on the vine-dark sea and listened to quiet prayers of a dead man. secrets and forgotten whispers had been tucked away in the corners of ancient wood just like the wailing wall in Jerusalem. wish you were here. wish you were real. dark, deep, forgotten beat.

Twenty-five dreams.

2010-12-19T21:47:00.001+01:00

i had this dream in which you were cloaked in crimson-red sheets of fire and passion. through polychromatic layers of these pieces of my soul, i found that grass-stained hat you had been looking for - ever since the day you disappeared under a blue and yellow striped blanket. tell me, have you found what you are longing from?

because you forgot to sent me postcards and now i’m sitting here in a field of merry-go-rounds and lady bugs, hoping that Hermes will find his way to me. i have been good, like you asked me to and read the Bible every day until i resurrected Jesus and he painted my world monochrome and digital. or perhaps it was some poor lost soul with purple wings that – like Icarus – forgot how to fly and no longer reaches for bravery and Sirius.

i wish you were here and i would not have to look for you underneath swatches of brown and ages – the burns from years that went by without you as blisters on my back and staples in the soles of my bare-coloured feet. i had sincerely hoped that for once we would not have to meet under electric circumstances and that i would finally be able to caress your zygomatic bone.

i wished, at last, that you would stop to try to write me a fantasy – i have enough of those – and started fixing those broken words that pour from my ill-stitched-up heart. (you cut it up in the first place, now go, do not rest until i found all the pieces) finally, it is clear – i have never been such a creator of secretive publicities and preferred to build a house in shades. and they say black is not a colour.

i am kissing you, but alas, you have been captured once again behind multi-coloured layers and a thick shield of glass. all bored and treacherous humanity can see you and you cannot stare back.

P.S.

i made a list of twenty-five dreams that i know. priceless prayers and wailing words are send out in paper boats to reach someone who has the ability to change the wind and let them breathe. just this once. i drew three hundred pictures and told eight words in the fading light of a sailing comet – look for me on your darkest days and allow me to realise that it has all been one of those twenty-five dreams.

Tumblrrrr....

2010-12-19T16:59:00.001+01:00

A close friend brought this to my attention. We had a fierce discussion about Blogger and Tumblr, and which one was cooler. I thought I had won the fight. But instead I ended up saying: "Tumblr is SO cool..."

http://psyourssincerely.tumblr.com/

Lover's prologue.

2010-10-12T18:06:00.004+02:00

careful now, love, because with every beat of your bleeding heart you are not with me, you tear the days off my calendar; another heartbeat not spend with you, another day lost. for every oddly shaped cloud we do not watch together another stroke of my heart fails and soon, perhaps, we’ll both die from cardiac arrest.

listen, now, love, listen. do you hear the beating drum of ambiguous silence, the soft humming of a deafening prescheduled war, the raging cyclone that rips windowpanes of this house that is not mine? lose the meaning behind the solar radiation of the blistering sun; because another ray of sunshine that will not rise down on your delinquent chest is another memory lost.

feel how molecules drift around and tighten the grip around your aura; soon, maybe, they will gather for budget meetings and conclude at the end of ages of pointless discussions that my atoms should not rest aside with the scent of your hair.

have you ever halted and stood still by the constitutional fact that i was right there midnight after midnight to watch and preserve this beauty that consists only in my head? oh, the stars i have counted late after the sun dipped into the salty promiscuous sea, i counted past the Pleiades before i tumbled down into an unknown forgotten black hole.

resign to the promising lie of eternity and remember how another morning not next to your bare clavicle is another day without oxygen. try hard to not forget the orthodox consideration that i wish i could caress the silk of your skin and compare it to my own scars. write down millions of the comet’s epilogues and treasure the elicit memoires of sweat and perfection and neglect the statement that it was all a daydream in a field of black and white daisies.

P.S.

Eskimos have Bibles too and did you know we were once a novel invention; long before they understood lime could be lit and set a world on fire. abandon reality to find a house that i have built from woodchips and fantasies and perhaps, just maybe, you will understand that another day in the absence of your love will make me wither and will make me die.

careful, now. love.

My tenth cup of coffee.

2010-10-05T23:05:00.001+02:00

you keep saying maybe you’re not ready but

i keep saying i’ll try (for your love)

like a Spartan on his quest for

glory

and deep down into the core of my soul i

know that i’ll miserably fail like

the Bible has predicted and i’m

so unfamiliar with writing in the

present tense.

you keep saying maybe you’re not ready

whereas i keep preaching that efforts

should

be rewarded;

shouldn’t they?

inevitable, or moreso, pick your favourite

i’m eighty and sitting on a bench

in a sun-lightened forest with

all these story-telling-lines

in my face and eyes that

don’t function properly

anymore for they have

seen

perhaps too much dreams.

conclude at the end of this story that

it is i, and only i

sitting on this green-layered bench

in that thunderstorm-lightened

bunch of trees

with you not to be seen in this

deafening vicinity.

i could write and write all i

want

in the end i was just

merely, simply

too scared to try

(for your love).

P.S.

in the book of fairy tales you’ll find a prologue that’s

not quite about me but perhaps

if you do something

you’ll know it has been about me and i lost

complete ability to write in

the present tense.

perhaps today is scarier than

tomorrow (‘s scars).

One two three.

2010-10-05T23:02:00.001+02:00

one two three,

one two three.

i pretend it’s a dance. a waltz, a rhythm that makes the air tremble, a sound that never dies and walls shiver in the repercussion of the opera singer’s grand voice. i appointed a shadow to be my companion, my partner, and as my hands hover in the air, laid down atop invisible shoulders – i dance.

one two three,

one two three.

my feet move over shimmering ardent woodwork, lightly as if walking on air, slowly as if making love. we tread on sunlight and on shadows; our souls melt together and become one. arc welding was never my specialty in high school and shut my eyes to protect dilated pupils against the vibrant, eyesore light.

write the steps down in thunder on pottery and stone, it can be used to tell a story, but it does not need, to tell a story.

P.S.

like an rhythm of a dance, i cannot follow. i have two left feet, seriously, and never learnt how to dance just like that. chronologically, perhaps that’s why i’m always alone on the dance floor.

Where seagulls meet the moon.

2010-10-05T22:59:00.001+02:00

tonight you may, for the moon is crescent and aqua blue. tonight you may, for the sun started pulling the ocean across the world and sea became land and London vanished under sea shells. tonight you may, for the dazzled stars are shining dully whereas Mercury is on fire. tell children’s bed time stories as if your voice is soothing and comforting, instead of hoarse and broken like an old damaged record player. tell them about the book of love sick deers and how Jesus couldn’t compare it to the Bible.

i'm dressed in the noise of soft whispers and ten year old's giggles

the intoxicating rumble of soothing jazz fills even the deepest corner of hidden secrets, the static quiet rush of chatter in between the exchange of crimson red shades - perhaps this is what comes close to perfection, perhaps this is what is left behind when you dissect the true definition of joy

if Da Vinci had ever heard of polychromatic beauty, Mona Lisa would have looked like this

and smiled because ardent dreams have thus become reality and no longer are reminiscent scents enough to lessen the grave for cigarette burns in a chalcedony love song

alas! as Shakespeare told us; behind every face there is a devil and i am with the devils here tonight, right along the line of twilight, where seagulls meet the moon.

Letters to myself, part I.

2010-10-04T23:16:00.000+02:00

i.
you said yesterday doesn’t mean any-thing, any-more. tomorrow no longer resides to the constitutional fact it once was. i said i waited for moons and moons to crash and burn like the sun swallowed its own flames until dancing comets put an end to its delightful misery. dreams and wishes, love, dreams and wishes and keep on dreaming, keep on wishing. i never really believed in secret any-way.

ii.
misery. you love that word. and all those other words that occur pointlessly black on white paper-silk in your drama-dictionary. i say you merely scribbled words down onto a tissue-box.

iii.
contemplate on how things would look if you have no black and white love running over a bed of autumn-brown leaves and wonder how the world would look if you could take pictures with my eyes and mind and would no longer require three-hundred-millimetre objects. oh, the joy of colour recognition and wood chips painted grey.

iv.
run the marathon in the worry-race, train and train until your brain sweats fluids and you signed your death certificate, making deals with the scythe. claim to be the first to see the windows of heaven as cerebrospinal fluid rhinorrhoea will be the cause of death on the coroner’s report. have i ever told you, that story about a mortician and a gravedigger? Hello goodbye, love, hello goodbye and you were right nothing means any-thing and accomplishments are simply a democratic way to get you somewhere, any-where.

v.
you said you can’t go past five and i said i’d agree. right now, my lumbar puncture all went wrong and i suffer from brain-paralysis. carve it down into my dried-moss-covered headstone; another thing i died of. or perhaps it was all because i grew no backbone, my mom is a hypocritical critic and pretends to be seventeen again.

P.S.
i know all these lists of vindications are unlikely to happen, but my mind can’t control itself. i wish i could smoke less and get all my homework done on time whilst i sit here alone in this world, writing these letters to a person i won’t be able to identify behind a one-way mirror, i cannot understand and wonder how the hell my body went down(-hill) as i sat up straight like my daddy told me and i place posters against trees with rust-nail- staples, screaming; have you seen my head?

HelloGoodbye.

2010-09-09T09:45:00.001+02:00

i.
because they write about somos los, philosophy majors and unsent letters – no, not unread. they got touched and burnt, wrote songs about immobilization and night schools and they danced with marble myths and self-esteem.

ii.
and here i am, lost confused and longing for that excruciating unknown (tribute that might save me life). they said it’s good to be a compass in-between magnetic fields but i’m becoming seasick and fear i will throw up all over your shoes.

iii.
because they’ve been telling me details about my personality and compare it to the sun – basically, technically and scientifically, they’re right. give heat, give warmth, give light equals give love and givegivegivegive. give. givegivegivegive and get nothing in return. it’s really too bad they forgot about the constitutional fact that the sun is slowly dying.

iv.
and here i am, this household that fills the corners of the four cardboard walls i live in is dominated by two parsimonious souls that don’t know the meaning of possession or honour. my backpack is too heavy and wearing me down into that hole in the earth that swallows you, somewhere. words, letters and sentences tried to escape and i used barbed wire to keep them still and save for me to chew on them and ruminate about the meaning of – yeah. of what?

v.
have you ever thought about what first impressions can do to your limbic system? have you ever wondered why the earth is round and goes around the moon and why you can’t plant a planet-tree and hope you’ll grow Jupiter in your backyard? no, if you tried, they still will not speak to you, and definitely, surely not about politics and aliens. have you ever thought through about who takes care of you if you find yourself drowning in inability and if you have, did you discover too that you’re the only one on this square globe? have you ever wondered, wondered at all, about who’s and why’s and the questions behind the answers and have you ever driven yourself of the edge of insanity? and have you ever wondered, why it feels they're all so much better than you?

P.S.
if you have. stop now. because i discovered, the only ones that will take care of you when you reach the days that you can’t, is a mortician called Hello and a gravedigger called Goodbye.

don’t count on me to (say) stay forever.

A guide to get struck by lightning.

2010-09-08T18:18:00.006+02:00

i’m too tired to continue writing words in neon light and the brightness is burning my pupils in the darkness; hoping that one day, in a humble star-dashed night, you’ll finally understand why bees react to sweet smell, ants follow sugar and fireflies are attracted to bioluminescence.

i am the queen of nostalgic dreams, my hair is bright royal red, my fingers interlace a crown of green four-leaf clovers and when you find me too heavy to carry, you go up and fall down face first into a waterfall of polychromatic thunder.

my hair in changing colour because of the all the lies you’re telling and your face keeps changing form. never knew about traitory or devil worshiping for i was the queen of sealand and i lived in a world of absent minded transgression.

P.S.
if you find all these words too hard to comprehend, don’t even bother to knock on seashells and bring me flowers stolen from pink underwear. stand in pools of tears in an abandoned open plain and follow the signs of how to get struck by lightning.

Paintings of an afterlife.

2010-09-08T18:18:00.005+02:00

-i.
say you want to be hard as stone, a cut-through diamond, adamant and ardent. be the electricity that runs through waves crashing down on shores and people’s heads, burden them with the curse of inability. be the tree that bends but does not break for your old oak flooring is ancient.

-ii.
said you wanted to follow the tunes of immortality, follow the procession towards empty graves and freshly killed humans. caress the sweet touch of putrefaction and alphabetically order deaths by cause. be the scythe death handles, his right hand, his beloved possession. appear to be the devil’s precious laugh and giggles and make life miserably funny to your own amusement.

-iii.
you’re the one that lurks in corridors and in dreams, in the corners of their churches and their temples regardless of their baby-boy-choirs, their sing-sung prayers and death-bed wishes. artificial witnesses and tunnels of light do not amaze you because it’s never been scientifically proven. worship the grand gift of silence and it’s floating rib to discover coping mechanisms all work differently.

-v.
phantom physicians told you you’re in trouble with acid reflux and your dreams of pages of your life ripped from the Bible to be imprinted onto movie stills will never be granted their own miracle of existing.

-vi.
a blanket of wetness is wrapped around my bare-stripped shoulders and i think of how silly i am.

P.S.
i know i kept forgetting four, five and seven but then again, the Gods didn’t hear me when i told them i did not want to suffer from dyscalculia.

Lover’s guide to sin.

2010-09-08T18:18:00.003+02:00

i.
because they’re hungry
their hands eager to
touch, behold and be
loved the
traitor of a glimpse
ambiguous, love, yet so
damn tempting

ii.
didn’t they tell you that dancing in the rain doesn’t make you prettier?

iii.
the trace, the hunt
the final blow and
the ending part;
like a climax in artificial
movies like when the curtain
falls and there’s
no one behind
and it’s a race to beat
the echoing tick of
the station clock that
doesn’t tell you when
you run out of
time
nor is it a vague, luminous
remembrance of when to stop

iv.
for there is no stopping like there is no love

v.
and in the end either
Aphrodite has taken his
sight or Lady Justice
blindfolded his poor
brutal trust
whether he slowly dies
of poison;
another man’s kisses down
your iliac crest
or he finds you in the arms
of a man; arms that
are not his

vi.
he doesn’t know it are no tunes of love that Cupid sings nor the breathless sound of immortality.

P.S.
rooms should be painted black and not red because even the slightest difference is a scratch on the crest a map of the world and you’ve imprinted your face all over it thinking you’d always manage to flee and remain unattached. you’re merely a garden, love, either you blossom or you wither underneath a peach-formed moon.

(The) Empty blanks of adoxography.

2010-08-24T13:57:00.004+02:00

-i.
wear my heart
around your skinny boney
neck like a
metallic locker
pretending to be
a broken ruby-necklace
watch over
seas and waves of
disembarked bodies
as if
you stand guard
to witness the sky
growing from trees
and red-and-blue
dandelions

-ii.
apocryphal dreams and
polychromatic
hallucinations
combined with the
sweetest salty taste of
prismatic velleities;
we lay under burning
gravity waves below the
surface tension and
swim with
mockingbirds through
endless depths of green
grass and black
poppies;
fish for the stars like the
boy on the moon

-iii.
i wish i would
not need my
letters
to form these words
that would fail des-
perately in their
pathetic attempt to
tell you
how much-
…

-iv.
after all these
countless empty
years
i still don’t
remember
where you carved
your list
of my
vindications
down into solid
rock where
the sea ends and
the moon begins

-v.
late at night
i like to dance
with my incomplete
lovers hymn
playing on
a dusty old record
player and
we still haven’t
figured out
where land erupts
to lead a staircase
all the way
up
towards –
…

P.S.
i’m walking on bare stained-stapled feet to find whatever piece there is left of you. i am an aeolist and desire someone to worship my clavicles in polymorphous shades and even this tender asphyxiation can’t save my dying - …

Message to an unknown friend.

2010-08-17T15:56:00.001+02:00

Beautifully antipruritic.

2010-08-14T23:52:00.002+02:00

i.
your giggles are foolish and charming
poisonous like a flu in black
and white winters
spreading like a plague that
none can resist –
especially not me and my
weak sense of love.

ii.
the faint aroma of red wine
lingers around your mouth and
breath and i briefly wonder why
it is called red and not crimson deep purple
or perhaps even bordeaux red
magenta.

iii.
i am a poet
i am a writer
but this consistent love
i can not express on paper
knowledge is relentless and i
know that this is far from the borders
of reality.

iv.
what is this feeling without
boundaries without
the bleakest white distinction
this remorseless stroke of
a butterfly's wing
softly like the rapid movement
of hummingbirds.

v.
another thing
i can not fully understand
cause hummingbirds don't hum
and sound just like
the sparrow Jack had painted
on his arm.

vi.
i've got a secret
caress it in this room
where the damp is filled with
mutual lust and understanding
slightly intoxicating under the
sheer shimmer of shades and jazz
music.

vii.
curtains pulled close
the outside world
does not need to know
that we pretend it really
doesn't exist and
the light bulbs on the street
i have secretly stolen.

iix.
behold, fantasies do become
as real as ghosts and touch-
able for the extended grasp
gently, your perfectly formed
lips left the highway of ignoration
and found their place
right on mine

ix.
soft and wet and wily
no letter would suffice to
explain to you
to share with you this
insanely mind-driving-crazy moment
of pure happiness
tingly sensation combined
with a healthy dose of experience
would perhaps – maybe
come close.

x.
destination reached.
i don't need much more
a follow-up procedure would
definitely be appreciated
as the reflected light in feet-stained
rubies
or you and i in a car wreck
of disseminated labeled cloth
then again –
i might take it too far
i might ask too much when already
given such a
magnificence.

xi.
sunlight burns as i awake
and realise that this has once
more been just a daydream
as you rise like a Greek God in
my poppy-dazzled field of sight
you still do not notice that
my knees buckle under
the weight of palpitations.

P.S.
i know i am a fool for dreaming. i know there's an infinite small line between sanity and insanity, and not just because of in. thus with this knowledge, i decided to know i want to stay and abandon all reality.

Colourless lovers hymn.

2010-08-12T13:43:00.003+02:00

slowly,

carefully – but graciously, i carved the words on your skin that belong to disembarked sentences, that in their turn, hold a notwithstanding meaning in silent prayers that reverberate through empty church halls. with knives i would create thin, invisible lines so the story will flow right along the curves of your silky, tanned skin, round the muscles on your back where solar radiation is gently caressing through the open house.

razorblades i would use to swirl and dance with the ends of g’s and y’s, but only with them, only with those. the p would remain static and preposterous like a fool on the corner of idiot and love. j’s would eventually, turn to their righteous shape as they grow along your sides and hug your body as i do; tentacles wrapped around your waist, my head and recently dyed hair pressed against your chest to check constantly, whether or not you’re still alive.

this feeling, is not love. because love is not a pretty word, there is no way to expertly and perfectly, write the letters down on your iliac crest without breaking the black ink into two or leave deformed letters.

you make me deviate, you twist and turn to look into my eyes but i know you’ll find nothing – not what you want, at least. or perhaps i should say not what i want, but it’s only matter of calculated chronological order and putting the right characters in the right place.

stop now, love, please stop. i have to finish even though i know i’m not supposed to use you as paper, like my stark shrink keeps telling me. but do i care, of course not. letters need to form words and words need to form sentences so that those sentences will tell my story and what better could i find than you, to help me write it all down for you're perfection and deity. you’re a God. and i gladly worship (you).

slowly,

carefully – but graciously, i slice the blades up and down to form things that only my incoherent mind will comprehend for it’s too abstruse for the common limbic system and understanding was not a mammalian invention. antipruritic, pandemonium lighting strikes down and paints your skin red and yellow and blue before i trace the last molecule of your heart and soul through my amygdala - i am left without a heartbeat, you’re prettiness is too much for me to hear.

the significance of horripilation escapes my mind as it runs down your spinal cord. i take you in, devour you wholly as i devoured others and their minds. you’ve been chosen to delineate morbid imagery inflicted on your skin. and still, i don't look like her or like those you would love. reject and disacknowledge our distant and fundamental future and hopes and dreams of being together one day when your wounds have healed the scars will glow vibrantly underneath a crescent starry night.

i know.

slowly,

carefully – but graciously, i know.

and this soft and jaded lover’s hymn is colourlessly miserable.

P.S.
i became religious when i turned into a carnivore. i couldn’t help myself, as says my precious psychiatrist, you’re too deity to be ignored by the beast the lurks around the corners of my empty chest. sorry, love. but i love you.

The cubicle's tentacles... Or something.

2010-08-11T15:06:00.001+02:00

i'm lost and i'm confused. right or left, up or down, right or wrong? i'm sorry, i know i've/it's (????) messed up. riddles in my brain, fantasies and illusions conquered the command center and i've stopped knowing it all for sure. i always figured rene descartes was such a fool.

care to explain what you were looking for?

Temple of ardent dreams.

2010-08-11T15:03:00.000+02:00

my dearest,
my dove,
my darling,

you don't know me, but my heart knows you. you may not know yourself, but my heart knows you.

with you charismatic soul and deitily blessed body, it was not hard for me at all, to fall before you and let my heart be conquered by a simple smile in the other direction. i am merely a figure along the line, the hitchhiker on the ill-lightened highway where drivers crash their cars. yet poetry told me that at least i am there and in your presence, like Juliet blossomed with her Romeo and withered when he died.

whether or not i live wrapped in false cloaks and imploded particles of a collection of water droplets, romantic words that tell tales in the books of history, will be imprinted in the lines of the earth. right where the trees grow and the salty sea water crashed upon your shore-line, deep within the core. the illusion of you burnt on my retina is enough to keep me up at night. you are leaving me rapt and unfulfilled, as in a dream where this whiteness, this magical imagery is so without boundaries, without distinction; on the loose like an angry volcano, with faint palpitations like the flutter of butterfly wings. i know this is the shortest route to lose my mind and sanity soon will fall like the empire of Rome, but already i know that the earth is round, Columbus never reached the Indies and people die from a lack of inspiration.

what i am really trying to say is that i do not know. confusion is settling in deep within the hole in my chest and an agonizing reality show keeps trying to dance its way through the fog in my brain. i am suffering, long, lost and withheld, without the primary profound knowledge of why Spartans served and died for glory and land; i wish i had a purpose, an excruciating meaning running through my main arteries, without the plague of metaphorical questions. still, when the stars have fallen and icy small solar system bodies chase the moon, i use small razorblades to cut out my heart and dissect it as a puzzle you find in your morning paper, to figure out the reasons why; why the sun is hot and you can not just sail off the world unless you are a pirate under the blessing of a curse.

i turned to religion and artificial substances to find myself and solve this riddle in my brain. when Buddha and the Dalai Lama could not save my dandelion soul, i blamed God and told him the versicoloured origin of hoax definitely mocks Christianity and therefore knocks him of his throne like the ghosts of small babies that never tasted the scent of freedom.

i blamed God and figured this must be destiny.

but what is destiny aside from French torture and the drive to carry on? God may have decided my heart will beat with seeing you and only, when interlacing my eyes upon your lines, Cupid still has not realised that i am still a transparent cloud of fantasies and nothing is coherent.

P.S.
maybe some day, when leaves fall upwards and not down, you'll visit a moss-stained grave of war heroes and Jesus will tell you that it had been i that could not rhyme with words but i did still love you. i may not have fallen in love with you, and for that i bear my polychromatic vibrant scars, but the nicotine monsters in my head learnt from the gap that once held my heart, that i did truly loved you, for this heart of mine is gone, so long gone.

History of monsterminds.

2010-08-11T15:01:00.004+02:00

i.
i used carbon boxes with his face imprinted on in black and white to hurt myself. he stared at me as if knowing what i was doing to him and to myself. how could he; his face decorated streetlights throughout town and in dark places they called his name. perhaps he was just like Susie Salmon and the neighbour across the street threw his rotting lifeless remains in a hole in the earth. swallowed, just like that. justice was served to him on a golden Spartan plate but i'll keep waiting for Sunday and witness his face burning in the flames of the sun. for the sun erupts on Sunday, spewing plasma, a highly ionized gas with positive ions and electrons that could no longer bear your face on their orb.

ii.
i'm sorry mom. it's all right i screwed up.

iii.
blue officers of the law pulled me over for driving through the darkness without my headlights on, but they couldn't understand that this tunnel was endless and would eventually bring me deep into an unknown galaxy. i finally found what i was looking for, after all these leaves that tumbled down and all the snowflakes i counted. i collected red handkerchiefs and lost love letters to fold them into paper planes so they could fly away into the luminous phosphene light of the dandelion-stars in the night.

iv.
i'm sorry dad. it's all right you screwed up.

v.
my mother blames my father for the white powder that somehow found its electric way into my nostrils. i say i blame my sister because she's like Aphrodite but truth be told; i'm just another shade that loves the feeling of crimson crescent addiction and i love singing with fiction and yesterday i went to a funeral for reality. plurals and neologisms keep me up at wake; i fear Leonardo will star in my lucid dreams and i will sink. again. i may survive but he won't and i don't want to go through the trouble of losing you again.

vi.
wait. who are you again?

vii.
i'm sorry sis. it's all right everybody else screwed up but not you.

iix.
they tried to dissect my thoughts and muscles to figure out why i sank under water and dropped down when jumping of church towers. i explained in cryptic words and sentences sticking together because of spider-web-silk, that i must not be a child of Jesus and that i was born without wings just like Icarus. the conclusion came down to the fact that they could not explain my disease with plain pathology. therefore i must be the illegal alien Sting didn't sing about. the polychromatic bright origin of hoax mocks Christianity and upset my parents during the prayers like a lightning storm inside the cupboard Harry Potter grew up in. i never told him but we are so alike. they've been telling me not to steal and go to church but i still swear and curse in the name of God. call me a sinner, in fact, i'm merely a sadist.

ix.
i don't care what you will do; if you would develop the cure for cancer or go sailing on the light of the moon, i'll be adoring the (paper, i presume) planes that come crashing down and play hide and seek in the Northern Hemisphere

x.
i hurts to be the stinging needle amongst the dandelions yet i feel awkwardly right at my place here and i will keep on waiting until i turn into a butterfly-bush and they'll finally manage to compartmentalize me into blood types, blood plates and the superhuman anatomy.

xi.
i am an oneironaut and wish to study the monsters within murderers so that one day i'll be able to understand myself.

P.S.
i am a scientist and one day i'll find out where you go when you're gone.

(Be still, be loved,) On black and white imagery.

2010-08-03T23:19:00.000+02:00

i threw paper boats right outside my window made them float in the air for hours before the sun turned them into crumbled memories
newspaper-ink will slowly diminish until the dates have been tumbled together like
goldfish in round crystal bowls

i beg of you
forget me gently,
slowly,
but extraordinary.

missed that bus that was supposed to take me to the corner of sixth and vine
where i would interlace my eyes with signs of beauty and perfection – true love they say
yet time stopped ticking and i was thrown upon the wisdom of aging
and i died my hair blonde

i beg of you
forget me gently,
lovingly,
but painfully.

sat behind my mirror for hours and watched the moon conquer the sun and
witnessed the shadows put back the ball of fire atop of the throne deep in heaven
i stared at black and white pictures holding on to those last moments
holding on for dear life

i beg of you
forget me gently,
hopefully,
but sedately.

late at night when i have hidden the scars that elaborate my story
underneath covers of silk and silver stars that you took from the crescent sky
i wonder why and now and why now
do you still think of me?

i beg of you
forget me gently,
acutely, affectingly, distressingly, feelingly, genuinely, gravely, intensely, mournfully, movingly, passionately, profoundly, sadly, seriously, severely, surely, thoroughly,
but overall,
lightly.

they say
letting go is the hardest part
i don’t believe them
i say getting ready,
to let go,
is the hardest part.

i beg of you
don’t let me forget.
at all.

P.S.
Because I miss you and I love you and I think of why without finding answers. Because I wished I could see you one more time, hug you one more time and say 'I love you', one more time. I hope you know.
Dedicated to M.J.

(And no, it's not Michael Jackson...)

On the Eve of Truth

2010-07-03T03:38:00.004+02:00

-i.
okay. you say you want to play the honest game. here we go.

-ii.
fact one: i’ve never had to fight for anything. partially, or rather mostly, because there was never much to fight for. i’ve never fought for victory and bathed in sweat; i’ve never fought for a dream because my dreams were only so little; i’ve never fought for love for well – let’s be honest, my love has never been answered before and the love-doves i’ve sent never reached destination. i sometimes wonder if this makes me weak.

-iii.
the other part rises from the point that i am no fighter at all. i willingly and close to happily will reside to second place. i take too little for granted, always expecting the treasure chest to be nearly emptied out by brutal black rats. i enjoy another soul’s triumph more than celebrating my own supremacy. this might erupt from the fear of falling, but it can also be merciless modesty. i don’t know which is worse.

-iv.
fact two: i’m so tired of it. tired of the comets raging through the sky expecting me to cling onto their tails and hop on for the ride. tired of the enervation deep within my bones; deep within the very core of me. hopelessly frustrated by the weight of this bagpack on my shoulders and it only gets heavier and my knees buckle underneath the burden of this handicapped impairment.

-v.
i’m too proud and too self-destructive to admit that late at night i call out to the nearest savior. please prescribe me something, break my fall and re-attach my wings. all i want is a day in the life of a random, plain and perfect stranger to know what it is like to pretend to be all right, and actually speak truth and not lies.

-vi.
fact three: i’m a perfectionist and centuries and a million shooting stars ago, i fell in love with ideals and faultless smoothened paper cuts of true love. funny it is, how i always dream of being in that black and white picture with the words spelled right across it. sometimes, the arrogance-tree inside my chest tries to grow despite countless efforts of repression and i reconsider my every move. me is my own worst, remorseless critic and every step in dust and mud is harshly calculated and disapproved.

-vii.
i wish and wish and wish, whilst swinging on the appetence-tree, cornered with the shadows with bells of hope, a burning agony overcomes me and for one day, i long to be someone else. but sssh, don’t tell, these are my secrets and they are locked away in my esoteric-mystery-box.

-iix
fact four: i like to call it the human malfunction syndrome, but in fact it’s desert- dryly called the hypermobility syndrome and i live in dreams.

-ix.
misunderstood is my middle name, along with boring and dull. i like to wear black and once upon a time, i met the brilliant phrase ‘it clashes so wonderfully with my colourful personality and i like the conflict of this simpleness’ to scare them off without having to bite. besides the torture of wanting to be someone else, pain in bones and muscle was just not yet enough; chronic pain and exhaustion looked pretty on my resume too. ink on white would dazzle your incomprehensible brains for thinking is usually a one way street to those that do not know how to use their limbic system – understanding is not a mammalian invention.

-x.
ssssh… don’t tell. keep your mind to yourself and don’t think colourblind. don’t believe in casuistic treasury. dare to separate fact from fiction and fiction from truth.

P.S.
you can call me a coward, you can call me a dreamer; an idealist; pessimistic or unrealistic – truth is that i am painfully honest and know how to write my sins chronologically and alphabetically and use pulchritudinous words to tell my story.

A guide to deceive your dreams.

2010-07-01T17:41:00.000+02:00

-i. he said: one night only.

-ii.
he scattered the night and hid the pieces in the back pocket of his worn and torn jeans. he spoke to her in broken words and empty memories as he painted himself in versicoloured colours of white and pink. he gave her promises he could not keep.

-iii.
she said: that’s not enough.

-iv.
some god had told them their love story was not worth painting down on canvas and display it in the theatre of arts for they were just ordinary, intrinsically and ethereal ordinary. plain and compelling they swiftly moved through the star-dashed night – the one that he ripped apart and she put together with adhesive tape. they were just the stars that were the bleakest, the comets you saw falling in the night.

-v.
she said: they said toughen up. grow a skin of cement and walk around with various calcined mixtures of clay and limestone pressed on your heart like a band-aid. become a warrior, a statue of ice and fear no evil for you will overcome.

-vi.
he said: one night only. babe.

-vii.
as she dodged his raging fury and the rain of crashing moons missed her by mere thoughts she wondered if some god was right. their tale was not worth it to fill with words. let alone scribble it down onto the pavement of poverty and redirect the slow motion movie stills.

-iix.
watercolors and pastel smoothness were gently stroked across her cheeks. hospital white met the polychromatic vibrant of red and purple. one day she would speak to the worms and dance with the wind as her coffin went down into the ocean. but that wouldn’t be enough because she interpreted her story to be that of Romeo and Juliet as she longed for his antipruritic touch.

-ix.
she said: this will only hurt for a moment.

-x.
she took them back to the beginning, right before they met and she erased all mistakes so easily and carelessly that she forgot she had taken this road and her footprints stood still embedded in the paper castle. eventually, they would return again and nothing would have changed.

-xi.
she said: love. you’re too brutal.

P.S.
this was not merely an intensely amorous incident. this was love down to the very core of it but after she left the merry-go-round she discovered love had lost its glycolic sweetness.

he said: it’s funny how you many ways you can bend, twist and twirl your last line and it still comes down to the same point. love. it’s too brutal.

Midnight hour ruins.

2010-06-30T13:30:00.004+02:00

we have created a temple where mosaic shattered windows reach up to the paper-starred sky, where bows are condescending; where arches are turned and curved like parenthesis; where prayers are quietly sung, aluminated by ethereal nonsense and pretty sentences, sing-sung in a baby-boy-choir.

rain would come and swallow the weak and minor sand-particles, carrying them away, farther and further, until they would, eventually, return. slow-motion lightning would strike and brutally set the sky on fire – stars would bleak and thunder would shake the earth and their tears would rapidly and willy engulf in the ocean.

angels would descend to precisely move the fingers of the clock at London station and every time midnight encountered, Gods would grow weary because this temple was still standing and no raging wind nor furious age would weather the solid foundations.

and as i was enjoying peace and serenity and a horizontal stretch view from the highest balcony, i would have been too enthralled in satisfaction and to oblivious to realise (or understand) that you were touching clouds and talking to Aphrodite, ripping down the splinters and lead the stench of rotting love right through our front door.

and so the silence was all that remained in the air between us, unspoken words of comfort and unshed tears of deep desperation. bind yourself to the silence of unspoken words; utter a word and it all falls apart. don't be the one to break it for yesterday's tomorrow is today's funeral and tomorrow's funeral is yesterday's suicide.

P.S.

we had built a temple for our love to remain and grow old like marriage was once suppposed to be like. but just like any other love story we withered and died.

Memoires of a hero.

2010-06-30T13:28:00.000+02:00

i found a carbon box
down the side of the road
the other day
mold clung onto it for dear
life and phosphene bugs had
made it their temple

as i had made my way
through grasshopper dashed strings
of green i read the letters
and black ink told me ‘careful,
this side up. 1x plastic hero.’

the arrow was pointing down
the world had tumbled and remained
upside down
i wondered if that hero
would be seasick by now.

i opened it, expecting red capes
at the crack of dawn,
a dream garden, God,
the trumpet of an angel. i
dreamt of Pattinson, Michelangelo
or a miniature doctor with the
cure for cancer

instead there was a small and
humble man, cornered in
the darkness, folded like a
baby in its mother’s womb
he was made of glass and the
sun that rose from between
slow-motion thunder clouds
was reflecting on his beauty

rapidly and willing, he climbed up the
long lines of my fingers, tracing
my extended, slightly tanned arms

‘i am a hero’, he said, ‘and you saved me
for which i will reside to your
shoulders and fight off the
monsters that shall approach
i shall conquer weariness and guard you
like a true lover of Greece.’

years, days and comets passed and
the stars grew dull and the
sea stopped pulling at the
moon – or
was it the other way
around?

i was save from harm but instead
turned colorblind and failed to
see the difference between
the dirt on the road and your touch
against the bleak skin of my
nevus-dotted clavicles

this was, of course
purely mathematical and
harshly calculated and polychromatic
sky castles were flushed away
like the ash of my cigarette
and i
never understood the pathological
difference between ran
and run

i found a hero down the side
of the (dirt-dashed) road
but i broke it and now he’s
gone.

Tender asphyxiation.

2010-06-02T00:47:00.001+02:00

-i.

the mirror is crying and i can't apprehend why for when i want to caress its cheeks my hand gets wet - remembrances of Jack and Rose violently ride before my eyes on a rollercoaster - and suddenly i appear behind colourless layers of mist.

-ii.
whilst i'm not a crier nor do i ever cry, when my eyes land upon your deity shadow i wish to because i know i will always meet your faint lines on cold and grey pavement stones and never again will you kiss my clavicle in polychromatic shades.

-iii.
i said: in my dreams you do.

-iv.
then again, dreams are such casuistic trickery i bet God invented them to please the critical human mind in his lack of presence. if He was here, what would he say and would He come to me to gracefully or/nor bitterly inform me that He has read the letters my white-feathered homers failed to send him.

-iv.
i've flushed so many meaningful minutes of my life down the drain along the crystalized rainbow-coloured water i wonder how many i have left to die from asphyxiation or would i remain drunkenly vigilant enough to realise fog took my vision on the clock and radiant numbers are stretched out until they transform into a crimson red blur.

-v.
at the crack of dawn i wake up sleepless and circumspect; keen to trace the last molecule of your figure through my amygdala and i am once again left without a heartbeat.

P.S.
i'm bonding with nicotine tenaciously and i don't care for the deprivation of your love is an absence of oxygen. you're not my air so i die. this is tender asphyxiation.

Mona Lisa's don't smile.

2010-06-02T00:45:00.002+02:00

for your bright and shiny and yellow; a bleeding sapphire in a dusty desert wind; you're the sound of strokes on a keyboard, black and white and equal and hard whilst representing the softest sound of life. you reverberate through walls and despite my best efforts the sun won't melt you down, i can't smash you like a broken diamond and you won't die. your faster than the speed of sound and light, as a versicoloured comet through the porcelain star-dashed sky, across depths of darkness and your laugh echoes past your tail as you leave me far behind and i picture you and i on a postcard beach.

i dissected my dreams and tore 'em to shreds until there was nothing left to analyze and i was all alone to ponder and ruminate about dreams that will always be dreams like the sky i could never paint sea-green and dandelions would always remain white and never turn redolent red.

the clock would keep ticking from right to left but maybe, if it would start at five and go back to four i would have a chance to save my sinking boat and get rid of these amorous feelings i preserved for you. for you run and run and run and run with your hands flapping in the air as if you wish to fly away and away from me. maybe my words had been too ironbound and too uncivil and too black that i forgot about you and your own centrosymmetric feelings. you once told me colour recognition is important and so i collected enameled chips of various colors and still you could not see it was me who had been loving you for your world exists only of shades of grey and i'm so sorry i couldn't paint your world as if it was painting by numbers. let's just face it. i have always been suffering from dyscalculia.

i guess you could say it would have never worked out anyway but i asked you to wait for me and you just went on as you walked down the road not hearing the whisperings hovering in the air like the smoke at the mouth of a gun, which makes me the aftermath of a gunshot and i tore Mona Lisa to long rips of paper.

i know i am a fool but you can blame a foolish woman for dreaming?

i'm writing unfinished letters to God and maybe, just maybe, He will read them this time.

A thousand ways to die.

2010-06-02T00:44:00.006+02:00

because eventually, death is inevitable. death is like waiting till the sun goes up and the moon smiles down at your handsome, delicate face. i whispered words and dreamt your dreams. i could hear the cryptic words, ethical phrases and rhetorical questions but my membrane couldn't decipher them and for that, i blame myself. we're stuck in a black and white winter and butterflies can't haul you out so i wait and wait, hoping and wishing in a forgotten hospital waiting-room as i return to become dust for that's how we started it after all. i'm buried underneath the crescent moon that's why it's smiling at your dilated pupils as they shun you from the truth. i smash porcelain skin and wouldn't dare-care to pick up the pieces for i've been burnt before and i know the last illusions of your love will cut me wide open and i'm not willing to bleed. again.

i wish we could put a stop to these eternal internal fights and be together like kidney's and its kidney stones. your lungs won't expand and i feel like imploding because your crimson blood is filled with my poisonous love there's no room for oxygen left. i'm so sorry. you always said you were suffocating and i never really, truly, honestly listened nor did i wait for your cut-up and put-together sentences to reach my ear drums.

i crushed your heart, held you for too long in the warmth of my embrace and kept you too close and too tight. now, it won't continue beating its rhythms and in this mayhem you finally decided to accord my words and you lie still and play dead. i wish i had told you playtime's over and i wish i had told you i wanted you to come back so you could love me and hate me, so we could dance underneath a shower of stars and pluck lobsters from the sky. i wish i would have taken you to paint the sky bright purple and we would try to see if balloons could sink under water.
but death, eventually, is so brutally inevitable that whilst you're expecting it, it always hits you harder. you should have just left and let me be alone with my shadows in the corner and my crackling rocking-chair and let me repair the holes in my chest with silk instead of your precious promises. you're not dead. you're just gone.

and medically, i don't know which is worse.

Cotton-wrapped oblivion.

2010-06-02T00:44:00.001+02:00

-i.
for love is just like all those other deaths. and therefore i wish to have you carve this with your nails into the stone above my rest-bed until it is written in crimson blood and flowers blossom in artic winter.

-ii.
colours temporarily paused to regain control and faded too quickly as the night set in and re-conquered its territory. in a way – in an intricate and subliminal way we're just like it; we fight only to lose at the crash of dawn.

-iii.
at least Spartans faced the thousand armies because they were brave and foolish – died for loved ones and pretended to meet the core of the earth in search for glory. i am not like them for i am too lazy to start my own pilgrimage and walk to the Holy City on bare blister-riddled feet for a man i don't believe in.

-iv.
because love is just like those other deaths and let's be honest for you wish to be a priest – you never really loved me anyway.

-v.
i wade through the current of our stability but in the end the sewer-rotting stench became too much and rats nibbled on my salty, versicoloured fingers. and so i choose to find illicit love and be just like Anne Hathaway since Shakespeare's story about Romeo, Juliet and endless love was not even true and if it was – then they were merely amorous liaisons.

-vi.
it's september twenty-ninth and i celebrate my anniversary with the shades of your past and my future. they clash and fight over broken porcelain dishes across the weather-torn table. that whilst rage and fury should be appointed to me because i let a bus run right through me and my motes were shattered and are now dashed across the Pleiades.

-vii.
in this train-ride of thoughts i slowly realise that i have not loved you enough for you became anemic and i had stolen your heart without ever replacing a mighty oak tree – leaves would fall in autumn and yellow-brown colours could come out of your mouth instead of the deadly plain usual acrimonic blatherskite.

-iix.
i was wrong so wrong so wrong for you never loved me and i never met you.

-x.
it's early in the morning slumber and Acronyc just left the door as i wake up from this dream that involved you and – really - seriously - nothing else but you.

How to write consistency.

2010-05-14T12:31:00.004+02:00

cons-is-te-ncy

con-sis-ten-cy

consistency

for years i didn’t know how to spell that word and my dad was never around to teach me and so i wandered around aimlessly for the longest centuries until i found a place i thought was mine.

self-hatred-ulcers evolve on my skin as rain continues to pour down atop of me and i keep trying to get hit by this destructive, pandemonium lighting but i think i’m just like luminous phosphene and you don’t see me as if shadows dance around me and i dissipate in the air – like mist for mist is merely an extraordinary phenomenon of small droplets that hover pointlessly in the air and don’t really subsist.

i’ve tried, really, i have, to make you love me but diablerie potions and unspoken spells didn’t work and now i’m pretty sure you’re eyesore and i hope that the longer i keep saying i’m alright, it’s alright, it really starts rubbing off on me like a disease that spreads by simply looking at you-love.

but let’s be honest, let’s just face it – she’s always been prettier than me. whilst i’m walking on bare stained-stapled feet in order not to hurt your feelings.

i can almost close up my skirt i promise you i’ll never eat again – just a few more weeks and i’ll look just like my sister for i know i’ll be too late and you’ll find another excuse to tear me down and eat me up but i’ll go down your list of vindications until you’ll have to say to me that you just don’t love me and that i have wasted my love and my life trying to conquer and conceal you because you will still not notice me no matter how hard i run and how many anonymous love-letter-poetry i write.

had it not been my day today, i would have slipped into a cartoon car and driven off far into the unknown polychromic, versicoloured sunset.

and with every pound i spill it proves weakness to the reflection in this mirror for it’s never enough and with every inch i gain i’m known for my lack of self-control and consistency is added as another shortcoming. in this realm of legendary minds i am not enlisted for i am not special and i don’t look like her or like those you would love.

love. i’m trying, i’m trying so hard i’m fading into the mere distance just like celestial prisms and where the hell were you? as i carve this incomplete lovers hymn down in my chest i wonder where it all went wrong for i was there and there and there and you went gonegonegone.

P.S.
you were never truly appointed to the cohesion of the same principles and i still don’t know how to write co-(n)-sis-te-(n)-cy.

The bells of the Notre Dame.

2010-05-12T11:38:00.001+02:00

-i.
put your frustrations and
effort in bed for you lack
social skills i bet
you’re mother never let you play
with plastic toy guns so you chose
real hollow-point bullets just
for the sake of it and
decided to do your hair in front
of a mirror every morning
instead of letting your girl-
friend wax it up

-ii.
i wanna bet it looks ridiculous
but i cannot really tell because
you fled yourself and your home
and never send any faint coffee-stained
black and white stills of war and
your delicate face

-iii.
as i wait for my life to re-load i con-
template on how things could have
worked out if you loved
the rain and watched birds
drop from the bright green
sky

-iv.
curiosity breaks my neck
and this lack of inspiration
is like a poison ivy rash that
no miracle worker can erase just
like the time i tried
to cut you from my heart
which didn’t work as well
and now i’m stuck in
Neverland without a
mote of your prisms and black
thunder-cloud scars on
my chest

-v.
in just a few years
i will look down on
you from the
highest exterior
apse of the
Notre Dame and we’ll
dance with the stars when
celestial bodies fall from
the sea and i’ll paint
your picture on
their tail

Cardiac arrest.

2010-05-10T22:52:00.000+02:00

you say you’re a patriot

i say you’re a fool

i found a love letter in the sole of my shoe the other day when the sun was shining and daisies looked like little balls of all-consuming fire. i am allergic to green spring-grass yet you insisted to go for a picnic. now i see abstruse chalcedony spectrums as ants subjugate my skin and goose bumps’ act like waves that crash into the walls of humanity as they try to push it back.

in just a few words you managed to sweep me of my feet for you’re a volcano eruption. my heart became soap bubbles and no longer were adequate enough to fill this gap in my chest. the doctor calls it myocardiodystrophy.

you say i shouldn't wear your shoes
i say you infected me

and the bubbles escaped through my mouth when i called out your name but you didn’t listen and now my heart flies away like little air balloons with baskets of white flowers and morning coffee and as i grasp all i get are thunderstorms and bleak-forgotten coins.

we could drive around for years, with the music slowly dissecting his white-striped black car. how do you pronounce 'i love you'? because he smiles and laughs at me, i'd wear a red cloak and pretend to die for glory.

you say a-ho
i say you mustn’t leave because i wear your shoes and you're such a fool

and my lips forgot what it was like to kiss you and he let my tongue swirl with the bitter-silver-necklace taste in my mouth. i keep getting notices that my vision of you is not legal and that i should return you before my warranty wears of and the safety seal gets cut by a diving albatross. he left me before a stop-sign and let me cross the street all on my own no wonder i got hit by a bus and you escaped from my mind.

you say you didn’t mean to
i say you had it planned for you’re smiling
(secretly when she’s around) and you never did that before.
P.S.
it’s five a.m. and too late to write about how much i miss you
for him, for you
it was never too late for you, for him, to tell me how much you loved me and
baby we’re going downdowndown as i slip into cardiac arrest

The SS Californian light's.

2010-05-08T20:19:00.003+02:00

whether or not i live under these false pretences –

there is not a chronic blood cell in my veins that would think about leaving you despite the fact you're a poisonous drug flying freely through this rapt and unfulfilled cocoon.
we live on islands, you and i and seagulls act as personal homers because this spitting distance is more than a simple crack in your forehead.
a hundred miles and counting kept us apart and this constant moving earth crest doesn't make it any easier and every boat i take sinks into the Grand Banks and Icarus' wings proved to be apocryphal.
i'm too tired to fully distinguish the polychromatic hallucinations from cumbersome mutual morning slumber.
my dove,
continue to appear in my foggy (day)dreams as sun daisies hide from darkness and let's continue to let these prismatic velleities be mere phosphene nebulae and we'll fish for the stars at the crack of dawn for Jack died and Rose moved on.

P.S.
this love letter is not meant to be heroic and i still not dare to interlace my eyes with you so we'll watch the sky separately and witness Daedalus morn alone and tephra cloudens the crimson red sky.

(as i'm on your island and you lost your density.)

Letters from Romeo and Juliet.

2010-05-08T20:18:00.001+02:00

-i.
the very core of our foundation is feverishly slowly coming
down like spring is the new face in town and winter
beckons at its feet.

-ii.
the bricks of our very existence are crumbling down with
every illicit tongue you find elsewhere and with every
Aphroditical woman you devour you bulldoze
right over our believes.

-iii.
you've lost your artic touch and no longer do i enjoy
the feeling of rusty nails caressing my back nor
does your putrid stench pleasure my senses.

-iv.
acerbity grimes my teeth and for years i
have tried to get rid of your umami taste in
my mouth.

-v.
your hands burn and justice lies around the corner
like those calcine whores you brought
along as if you're the king of Greece and
need actual deceivious shields.

-vi.
careful now,
i might combust.

P.S.
see, my love
i have tried hard to fool myself like
mimes fool these pupils
i lay awake at night and the Gods said
you'd be here
i'm guessing the stars have swallowed you or
you didn't get my letters
(do you know who i am?)
(do you know i love you?)

This interchangeable nonage.

2010-05-03T22:59:00.001+02:00

here is you and here is i

and
where do you plan
to take this to?

-i.
to your mother's
the old bitch is ancient
and lives on traditions that
even those rotten and that have been dust
wouldn't rely on.

-ii.
to your father's
that stupid fart needs
to be able to hold a razor
and cut of that idiotic mustache
that blocks the spit coming from his mouth.

-iii.
to your sister's
whose sitting on the bus
her legs spread wide open the
silk of her pink panties vivid and
clearly visible under this umbrella.

-iv.
to your brother's
the jockstrap of this family
he watches porn long after the sun goes down
and pretends to be alright
at the crack of dawn.

let's have sex between these sheets of
broken mosaic windows and i'll
pretend the razorblades inside my lungs
won't hurt
i promise i'm fearless.

-v.
dare to rupture my vulnerable atherosclerotic plaque
before lipids will conquer my insides
and all there is left to do is to
sit still and wait till they come to take me
home.

and do not tell me
vomiting, palpitations and this underlying anxiety
are not part of your plan
you fuck/my love
wishes never come true.

On the wine-dark sea.

2010-05-03T17:24:00.002+02:00

chapter i.
please, let me be a coward
for today i do not have the courage
to pretend to be brave
for the Spartans died for glory
then again
Spartans never feared death nor shame
a-ho.

chapter ii.
am i really so intrinsically ancient
that i am merely luminous phosphine
or you do simply, painfully plainly,
do not notice me.

chapter iii.
i am a masochist,
hiding for 90% under a still, shimmering surface
because i’m too much of a caitiff person to show
i’m truthfully only a cold-hearted bitch.
(i’m an iceberg. watch me sink you.)

chapter iv.
i love you. beware. i sink you.

chapter v.
this collision is only temporary,
soon i am to be towed away like an old barrel
Bumblebee would be jealous off.
(though i must admit, the yellow old 1976 Camaro
was pretty damn cool.)
because i know your heavenly blue eyes
will never find my dilated pupils.
(especially not from behind
dark brown shades that hide my orbs
like trash in a trashcan.)

chapter vi.
i adore you. you’re worse than Paris.

chapter vii.
these acid feelings for you
scorch away whatever there is left
of my old and taintly dented heart
like cars on crescent fire
you paint my world polychromatic bright.

chapter iix.
i’m right here
in this intricate pandemonium
i do not blame you that your eyes
do not find mine for a fraction of time
but i’m right here.
(where there is smoke there
is you and i am distinguished from mist
only by its density which eventually,
inappropriately, results in this lack of visibility
relative humidity is far from your haze.)

chapter ix.
you literally see right through me.

chapter x.
acrimony taints my teeth yellow and
this taste i cannot get rid of whilst grinding
my teeth like rocks in a riverbed
i’m Merope and shine dully whereas
you are Atlas and carry my heaven on your
broad and beautiful shoulders

chapter xi.
i am right here
how come you do not notice me
i am chalcedony and i fell in love with you.

Mescaline predestine.

2010-04-21T23:32:00.000+02:00

and finally, i stand here before you, bleak and naked, rapt and unfulfilled.

i borrowed courage from this vagabond i met on the street’s on a rainy afternoon and he told me, i should be okay. and yet i’m standing here, blindfolded as a fool, as if running around in a chamber where they smashed all the lights. this transparent pagan heart of yours undisguised and exposed in the foggy morning slumber, i wish you would fade, vaporise like flour in the air and be erased by the coming flood of salt, which tickles our stained feet in order to call upon our faithful debt. we're dried flowers on a platter, open for display simply cheap entertainment. are we that dissected to not even be able to see what lies ahead and know we won't make it through?

it’s late at night and i’m still wide awake.

words come short when i try to describe this mercenary pain that throbs my heart and Jezebel rubs a steel cloth against it until it’s completely vanished. you said i was your jockstrap, instead, you were prussic acid and stripped me of my skin. i’m standing here and i prayed that i would say the words, but like always, when it comes down to it i choke on my own arctic breath, bubbles in a soda can, and end up saying nothing at all.

can they really tell the lies that are shed on the walls?

this mutual hatred towards each other, a winter holocaust that rages on inside our worlds. when did the days elapse and was it all one long ravishing nightmare? we're falling from the clouded sky burning like shooting stars and no longer can we hold on to this crescent moon that smiles upon us, knowing that we are just fools.

sunday’s come and go and there is nothing left to remind me of what there used to be. the ghosts of our future have run away – i wish to do the same. but it’s late and this yearning darkness makes me suicidal and weak. the cohesion fell apart, despite our promises, not to ever break apart - water destroyed our sandcastle. what fools we have been.

instead of wasting flowers, cancer grows inside my head and i don’t bother to quit smoking. history dances before our eyes like pollution escaped from damped containers. i can’t get your taste out of my mouth and my favourite sweater still smells of you. i try to erase it and feverishly scrub until my fingers bleed but in the end, it’s all so damned pointless.

and yet, regardless of missing you, i carve your name in my soul and turn to run away today. yeah. i’m running away. chasing me is relentless and utterly useless. like you would think about it, to try at all.

P.S. this monologue turned out to be longer than intended and still, i can’t write like you.

The right words wouldn't come out and I'm quite sure if I'm pleased with myself yet.

On a New York highway.

2010-04-20T22:48:00.001+02:00

Because i was stupid and
misplaced on this rollercoaster ride
i felt like garbage tossed aside
lying aimlessly on a busy New York highway
i'm sorry
my dog ate my head

because everything was just a failure
and black turned out to be purple and
purple was hurried unconsidered green
i represent the non-fictional close-up meaning
of a loser
don't be sorry at least i am something
(was presenting anything)

i cannot believe that you gave away my ethereal fences
i hope barbed wired made your hands bleed
and diminished letters became dingo's
in your hair

in this hugger-mugger i lost myself and
despite your lack of fanciness
i became nothing
in this long and dreadful farewell
i throw peanuts at your head
i hope some day this contraband-love will
wear you down into the sunshine and i
will stop hunting myself

P.S.
this context of torture replaces
ancient brevity
Like old faded stained granny pants on a
New York highway

House of cards.

2010-04-06T23:53:00.002+02:00

prolific and dislodged
i find myself in a house
that is not mine at
all

disconcerted and dissected
displaced and disconnected

these wandering, waving ghosts
of past, present and
future
a train rages through
all aboard or be forever
lost and confused, dashed
and dazzled by shooting stars
paint these scars on your elbow
ethereal shades of misconnection
wisdom silvery and shimmery
waited outside this house
that is not mine at
all

torn and tormented
trampled and triumphant

in this sea of wakened dreams
there is a shipwreck of walking dead-
blind pirates their woes
forever lost in the crushing sound
of waves of static noise
hear their voices and be found
in this house that is not
yours or mine

beloved and beaten
bewitched and be-even

doors that lead to empty plains
windows that entertain and curtains
fall to reveal abandoned faces
cracks of age and dust
ashes scattered like the rats that
eat these wooden floors
worn and wretchedness
see this house of cards
rain wetting the carbon walls
i fell and falter
for this house that is
mine and not yours
at all.

Blind phantasmagoria.

2010-04-06T10:27:00.006+02:00

See
the trees are falling over
their branches heavy with whistling
cockatoos
There is a raging rhino inside
a wet carbon box next to the
lonely luring lion and there are
singing clownfish dancing
in the light of
the half-eaten moon

Could you believe that i
am looking at this world
Merely, casually, just
through this water-riddled glass
with cracks on the surface
We are so ready to break
flick your finger, scratch the
silvery layer of containment
and this world comes flushing over
your bare stained feet

We are tango-ing and salsa-ing
spinning this world until
it comes down like a shooting
flame-consuming, rock-burning scar

Boy on the moon.

2010-04-06T10:27:00.005+02:00

She was – wasn’t, would
wouldn’t, could -
No
couldn’t be

boy on the moon

She had dried like paper flowers
as lost and profound whales
on dry land, bleak and ash
their skins no longer silvery shimmering
but dead and long gone.

Dreadful,
was the fall from the star-dashed
broken sky
Black holes like her eyes
space shuttles homes to the roosting aliens
shooting her out of the sky until she sears

boy on the moon
Ancient eras absently elected
guardian angels with their wings
ripped off, confused and stapled
with rusty nails on the sun
While they beg – while they scream
burn, burn away until you dissipate
boy on the moon
With his scepter and hand from God
naked, generous and profuse
Prolific wisdom does – doesn’t,
would, wouldn’t, no
Couldn’t come to you

boy on the moon
A dominion of sovereign dynasty
Behold
these dreams of quivery trembling
under the grey light of her shade
chivalry is long dead - you’re on your own now

commit your crimes
give up your sins
Live a life no iniquitous devil would undo
rummage tranquility – dissect the world until
you fall and land on a beach of human flesh
sand in your hair abrading skin of your face
And she would – wouldn’t
couldn’t - no definitely
could laugh at herself
and her

boy on the moon

Who I am, who you are.

2010-03-09T21:41:00.001+01:00

You dance
And you drink
You are the devil
In the fire.
You dance
And you smoke
And I try hard
To dance
And to drink
And to smoke.
I wear your mask
And I dance on the table
I smoke in the fire
And I drink.
Just like you.
I wish to be the devil
I is you and you is I, right?
Wear your mask
Be like you
So I dance and drink and smoke
And when I die
My last breath escapes
My cold, pallid and blue lips.
God tells me
At the gate
Where the angels are watching
'You can not enter'.
Because I was you.
I have been you.
I am you.
But then...
Who were you?

The Abyss.

2010-02-25T16:36:00.002+01:00

This burning ache inside of me
Razorblades and alcohol
Freely running through my skin
Passion burns and takes away my life
This soul monstrous and crawling out of me
The time is dark and heaven fell down
Inimical echoes of heartless minds
Are leaving marks on the porch of the house that is me
My castle, my home where the devil strides
There is no excuse, love is blind
Miles and miles to extend
But your fingers do not touch mine
I reverberate through the fog
Mist is deafening my sight
I can not control my self
For this love inside of me is dead
Thunder through the sky
Raindrops in my head
This love of me is dead
Gone, long lost and forgotten
Sitting, waiting, wishing
That space between us …

Inside the mind of a killer.

2010-01-02T18:34:00.000+01:00

passion and compassion a vigorous rush of poison
running through your already crippled body
the lies and the truth
a masquerade during carnival
life is a festival and murder the main course
blood on your hands like profound sweat
distant screams of music in
your tormented mind
shackled down to the earth
resisting is useless
dreaming is such compassion
passion is read between the lines
‘who’s next?’
steal their trust for their life is yours
open to grab, given to the highest bidder
the one with the most morbid thoughts
you’re in control
you are God
I am only watching as the lust
slowly eats you up from within
the smoke in your head that separates
illusion from delusion.

Interview with a writer.

2010-01-02T18:32:00.003+01:00

sentences pushed together into one
chronological line of letters
echoing phrases considered and re-
considered pretty words
ruminated found in dusty
thick, amorphous dictionaries
the who’s and why’s always
left uncovered the do’s and
dont’s never unwondered or otiose
the trail to reason unknown and
unseen by pairs of eyes the writer
always mysterious and so damn esoteric
the thought behind unnoticed
the web of a tale infinitesimal
the plot virulent and peril
towards the blank mind
poetry still disparaged
stories ever unreachable
a writer’s mind forever so fragile
suave and sexy
always so despondent and chimerical
I say.
Write that down, mister
if you understand.

Past, present, future.

2009-11-28T21:05:00.004+01:00

I have been
As we all are
Casted shadows
Distinguishing time
Had been
Swimming today
The red has loved
On your skin
I killed my lover
Tomorrow
I will - you would
Who knows?...

Tomorrow.

2009-10-07T18:24:00.002+02:00

It was quiet, almost peacefully and ethereal. She stood still and transparent, her arms folded before her chest as she watched the theatre unfold itself before her eyes. She was unable to move, motionless, her mind screaming to move but she couldn’t.

She wanted to cry, badly and unashamed. She wanted to let it all out, the pain that she had suffered in only one day, the agony, the fear. Inside, she was shaking heavily but unable to show the world as her exterior remained violently composed, silent and still.

She had no idea what happened, she wanted to speak to find the answers and rest her weary mind. No words would come out of her mouth, not so much speechless, but simply not able to. This frustration that crawled just under her skin made her go crazy. She felt like scratching her skin to ease the itching, even if it was a pointless and useless as it felt like.

She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe. All she could, was watching from the sideline, knowing the game was over. Time’s up. She was scared and there was no one she could talk to. She was all alone and stupefied with fear, millions of thoughts ran through her mind, things she wanted to do, things she was never able to finish, things she could never say again or things she forgot to say. It wasn’t fair. One minute she was okay. The next she was gone.

Her mother was quietly sobbing, holding her hand, saying it was okay, saying she loved her.

Her fatherwas fighting, chocking back the tears. He was never one for public display of affection.

They said it wasn't her fault. ‘Cause after all, how could she have known today was going to be the day that she died.

So tell me, do you still believe in tomorrow?

Darkness

2009-08-02T17:43:00.013+02:00

Sweat and stone
burried and prone
undiscovered and uncovered
nakedness under a blanket
of unseen tears and late cries
a duck on water
glowing with the waves

destination unknown
flying blind into serenity
knowing where to end
not knowing where to go
fate exposed, God says he knows
sweat and stone
burried and prone
make the jump
fly to the unknown
solace is not granted
for the restless
will remain undiscovered
and uncovered.

How to Love

2009-07-19T13:46:00.004+02:00

Careful, careless now
Break your footsteps
On ardent dreams
Feel the ethereal failure
Of pure insanity

Tomorrow for Yesterday.

2009-06-11T17:45:00.008+02:00

"I'd trade tomorrow for yesterday."

"Huh?"

"I would."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"You don't believe me?"

"Not really, no."

"Why not?"

"Oh, c'mon, you're one of the students with the brightest futures in the school."

"So that automatically means I live for tomorrow and yesterday is just the past?"

"Kinda. No?"

"No. I would trade tomorrow for yesterday."

"Okay. Why?"

"You ever had the feeling like you went to sleep as the person you are but you woke up as someone else?"

"No, are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine."

"I'm thinking purple or emerald green."

"Prom dress?"

"Yeah."

"You wouldn't trade tomorrow."

"I would."

"You would?"

"My tomorrow looks crappy. My neighbour is taking me to prom and with my level of intelligence, I'd probably end knocked up within three years while trying to hold onto my job at the local supermarket, married to some guy that works, eats, drinks and sleeps. All that while I'm stuck raising his kids."

"Yesterday your tomorrow still looked crappy."

"Shut up."

"I'm sure, if I could, I would trade."

"Purple or green?"

"Green."

"You wouldn't."

Farewell

2009-06-11T15:44:00.003+02:00

Goodbye friend
Farewell!
Bye bye
Wave wave
I'm saying 'later -
aligator'
Guess I'm leavin'
Guess I'm goin'
Bye bye
Wave wave
See you
'round in heaven
G'dbye,
l o v e

An afternoon at the café.

2009-04-12T00:19:00.003+02:00

As Nothing Should.

2009-04-12T00:15:00.002+02:00

Morning Eve

2009-03-27T22:52:00.001+01:00

Society.

2009-03-21T23:09:00.007+01:00

Waiting.

2009-03-21T17:27:00.017+01:00

Silence.

2009-03-21T17:27:00.016+01:00

Beneath.

2009-03-21T17:24:00.003+01:00

Red Run.

2009-03-21T17:20:00.006+01:00

Light up. Light up. As if you have a choice and run. Run for a better life. Run as fast you can and run to find a meaning.
And so she did.

She ran and ran, not stopping. She ran to find what she was looking for. But she didn’t know what she was looking for. And so she kept running.

Perhaps she was running in search of her perfect world. A world in which she was exactly who she wanted to be. A world in which she was the superhero because it would somehow, to her, give a meaning to this life. A world in which all her dreams came true and she didn’t have to fight all the time.

A world that would meet her ideals and thoughts of how things should be. She strove to perfection and her world would be perfect. A bright, radiating, green, sunny world without problems or issues, free from doubt and insecurity. Free from pain and despair. Free of sorrow and regret because mistakes wouldn’t exist. That perfect world would be calm and peaceful, everything would be in ethereal harmony.

But she realized that world would never exist. It would never be because that was how things were and how things went. You couldn’t have calmness if you had never been inside a storm. You wouldn’t have complacency if there weren’t any shaking vibrations and things couldn’t be perfect if you didn’t know what imperfection meant.

And so she ran. Ran to hide from her fears.

Fears that chased her like shadows chased the sunlight at the fall of night. Fears that haunted her like nightmares on a dark, gloomy and misty night. Fears like faces in the dark. The fear of breaking down and feeling what she was truly feeling inside. For she didn’t quite understand what she was feeling, how to describe it and why she was feeling it.

It were as if the shades of twilight had nestled deep inside her. It crawled under her skin and she couldn’t touch it, grasp it. She couldn’t put her finger on it, this darkness inside herself. Inside her body, her mind, like a drug, a poison running through her veins. It was all putrid phantoms.

But this fear was vigorously inside her and she couldn’t fight it. Deep down she knew she longed for it, it was a part of her, intrinsically, of who she was. And she couldn’t fight herself.And so she ran. Ran to find a place to hide.

Hide from the pain that seemed to follow her everywhere she went. Hide to be safe, even if for a short while. Just to rest and take a breath. Hide from the mistakes she made because she was afraid of them. Hide from the adamant scars that screamed at her when seeing daylight.

Most of all, she hid from the confrontation. The fact that people knew what she did. The truth, that would be rigidly slammed into her face.But she couldn’t hide. This confrontation was something she had to confront sooner or later for it would always follow her around like a loyal dog, always avid.

And so she ran.

And so she would always be running until she found the courage to stop and turn around. Face her fear. Face her perfections. Stop hiding.Oh, her feet were sore. Her knees were hurting and her hips aching. Her sides throbbed in a dull and numbing pain. But she wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t, though her breath was caught in her throat, her brains lacked of oxygen and slowly shut down. Her legs stopped obeying her compelling mind and she fell.
She fell for hundreds of years. For century’s she was falling down into a deep, black, rapt nothingness. Time lost its meaning. Colours faded and scents died. Her eyes were wide open but she didn’t see a thing. She had been running for so long and so hard that she hadn’t realized there was nothing left to run from. Her own mind and thought up imaginary ghosts were chasing her. In fact, I’m quite sure she was running from and chasing herself.

It took one simple thing for her to trip and a thousand years of unfazed falling for her to come to her senses and realize what she was really afraid of.
Falling.

Falling deep, deep down.

Open your eyes. This is your life. Are you who you want to be?

Crashing heroes.

2009-03-21T17:02:00.005+01:00

I dream.

2009-03-21T16:57:00.002+01:00