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Showing posts from October, 2015

Thoughts of the faraway...

Where I come from failure is a sin. It is impossible to happen to those you know, and when it happens to those you know of, the polluted air covers it up in dust as if an old memory hidden somewhere in a corner of the attic.

That is what happens to people who fail, people who don’t have anything worth the attention. They disappear in the city of dust and only come back through stories told youngsters who can learn from the mistakes of cousins they have never met. They have never met those cousins who have failed, because nobody you know ever fails. No. Wrong. Taboo. The only people who were part of the family and failed, are those in stories, those you haven’t met. And you don’t want to be them. You don’t want to be told and retold as a story of failure. A fable inherited through generations, most often renewed…

These stories are told and retold to naughty little possible failures, until one day, one of their victims fails. Then the world around them crumbles to dust. Then they start …

Exile

I am a crystal cube. A crystal cube is a fragile item and should be packed carefully in bubble wrap and put in a box. A red sticker that says FRAGILE notifies the guys downstairs to handle me carefully. Boxes are sent through the oversize baggage. Airport rules. The conveyor belt moves smoothly. The conveyor belt stops. Starts moving again. I feel a sudden push, like someone has hit me with a hammer. I fall. I have never left the country before. I have never been handled with such little care. The dispatchers have put something heavy upon me, not paying attention to my flashy sticker. I feel a crack.  Before I left I was a crystal cube. On arrival I am pieces of glass that have to be recycled.

Where the faith went lost!

Mean. she wrote on her lips with her cold, old brown lipstick.
Mean. She felt it all over her veins. Self centred. Directionless.
As if the blood that felt once hot and fast, dried up into black, burning coal.
Depression. This elephant in the room that keeps her tied to her bed, in a state of nightmares and concern for herself.
People, stupid, ignorant people thinking they can go into her head and tell her how to care for herself more. Make her change her ways because she should save herself from the pain of others. She can do better. She can always do better. Learn more. Take more. Consume more. She can climb the stairs so easily they think.
She's clever, they think. She has everything a girl could dream of and she knows that. She's mature. She's pretty. She's better.
Hell. That's what she is. A little piece of hell kept well inside.
She wants to scream, but they would rather she sing like a pretty little bird that creeps you out with it's warmth and tac…

A book with locked covers.

She's not excitable. She keeps her head cool and her heart, who knows.
She's not fun.
No one saw her when she screamed and kicked and bit hard at life. No one saw her when she cried violently and smashed and scratched.
They don't know her. They think she's pretty. Just a doll left in a box. Because, she's no fun.
They didn't see her ride away at midnight. Hide in the forest. Make love like there was no tomorrow. Smoke like there was no yesterday.
They didn't see her laugh hysterically at a pair of socks. Or dance on the beach until dawn. Or get the ugliest tattoo humanity has ever seen.
They didn't hear her scream, only muted resemblances.
When she asked for help, no one knew why.

I am.

They tell me there's some sort of sadness about me, even when I smile.
That makes me feel warm and bubbly inside. I enjoy it.
Cruel, this world where the winner in love is supposed to be the one who comes out of it unharmed. The one who loves less. The one who doesn't lay on the bed hugging the duvet and showering it with tears.
The one who doesn't laugh like crazy at the beauty of a sunny day. The one who doesn't extend a hand to the rain. Afraid of getting touched, wet, hurt.
The one who doesn't get that feeling like their heart has been clawed out of their chest. The one who will never know the wonder of that heart eventually put back in place.
That's winning in love, they say. How I long to lose.
This heart of mine maybe is too weak to handle such indifference as to be a winner. This heart of mine, a bit hysteric, a bit of a screamer.
I will throw it, I will chase it, I will let it break until the pieces loose shape. And I will make a mosaic, and I…

Claudia

She's happy can you tell?
Her eyes sparkle like the fireflies we used to chase.
My sister, my little one, my friend.
Still reminds me of bottled milk, crushed rusk and chubby cheeks. And matching frilly dresses.
Even though, now she wears crop tops and ripped jeans.
Now she drinks coffee in the morning, and eats little.
Her eyeliner is perfect.
Now she chases dreams, and love, and grown up things.
Simple, subtle and settling. No one has ever looked more beautiful.
If everything disappears from this world, let her smile be last.
How I fear that it may fade.
I've prayed so much for this smile to exist, back when I believed in God.
In front of her big brown eyes, I still do. I'd do anything not to see her cry again (like that time I told her Santa wasn't real).
I'll even allow myself believe for a moment, in something, anything she finds hope in.
I haven't seen her in more than two years. The memory of her soft hugs is starting to fade and crushed rusk d…

Losing faith

She is not responding to my voice.
She giggles like one of those girls with long legs and sheer black tights, the ones with red boots and mini skirts, and heavy distasteful make up. Girls to whom the streets are sadistic patrons, relying on that half faked giggle at every man that crosses their path.
Her tattoos, lumps of black ink around her neck like bruises.
Oh, she did have bruises once. They terrified me. Love terrified me because of her. It still does.
She is not responding to my voice. Her world has tightened, wrapped around her like a woollen scarf on a rainy day. Damp and suffocating.
The pink duvet has swallowed her up into a state of dreams.
She smells like cigarettes and cheap wine.
She's rotten and unhappy. I really struggle to find her beautiful nowadays. Her heated personality has now become lukewarm. It risks staying like that. Even to get cold, you need a certain, special heat. She has none.
I'm afraid to ask her who she is, for she may not remember her…

A page from the depression years...

I want to die writing! The exquisite, clich├ęd, romanticism of this idea is rolling in my head in parallels with death ….

My death …
Closer every second
Yet so far …. I think,

I’ll live forever
The lonely image of me,
A colourful painting of a person with a pale personality, me
Typing my feelings on a broken laptop hoping that maybe, if I die …

They’ll understand, That I cannot speak,
I’ve always wished to be physically mute, so I would stop being misunderstood,
But it seems the only way I can mute myself is by as many pain killers as I can have,

And alone, in silence, I write Maybe for the last time,

A part of me hopes that in a few minutes death will come and greet me and lure me with its silent beauty
A part of me is afraid of letting go, the people that I truly care about, that’s the worst part, it hurts right through my chest and burns the corners of my eyes…
The last part of me just wants to write forever
I’m not sure whether it’s writing calming my heartbeats, Or the pain killers in m…

The biggest lie.

I've come a long way from the dark and damp. I've come a long way from the dirt and the smog and the sour smell of alcohol.
I've travelled my whole life in two months.
My whole being. My thoughts, my art, my stupidity and my intelligence.
I travelled in your words when we talked about things that matter.
I travelled in your words when you thought you weren't good with them.
That's stupid. I travel in your words.
Through pieces of mirrors I found in you, showing me reflections of my deepest me.
What are you? If you're not just a silly trick of life making me think I love you.
Making me think I love you.
Messing up my logic.
I don't want to love you, because you're the closest thing to impossible I have ever met in my life.
I don't want to love you because it doesn't make sense to love you.
You're just a lie.
Just as much as a lie as the lies I tell you when I say I don't love you.
You're just that much of a lie.
Playing…

A girl called Love.

She has light brown eyes. Sweet like honey and shaped like almonds. Her skin is pale, her cheeks blush in a cool shade of pink. She looks like my favourite ice cream. Honey and almonds that is.
Her hair is long and the colour of grain. So full of life, so full of light. She looks like nostalgia for the summer day and the fields that give meaning to the farmers.
I love looking at her because it feels like I'm looking at home.
Her hands are gentle and soft like velvet. They hold my hands when we cross the street and I am scared of the massive traffic. They hold my hands gently, and softly, like a mother would hold a baby.
Her smile too, is delicate, slow, gentle and sunny, like princesses must smile. Hell, even her fake smile is pretty. She could have come out of the many books we read as children.
We grew up together. She has a piece of my heart and a piece of my brain. I have some of hers.
We grew up together. She cannot be explained without me and I cannot be explained with…