Servers revealed.

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Exclusive leak.

#guess the name of the restaurant

They are like the rolling stones. They are servers. All tables are settled nicely and with a lot of sweat. It’s 02:42 in the morning and they are still setting up for tomorrow’s event. Madonna ready, buffet almost ready, rolling area still – working on it, elvis area – still full of chairs, unsettled all. The tall guy starts lifting tables, A is still arranging the buffet, the crazy one is thinking of her child while cleaning the floor. The bored and the cheerful have no voice.

“Have you finished with 506?” screams the clumpsy waitress.

“Ta na na na” screams the other funny guy. Music is low, they had enough for today. It was Jukebox concert.

I’m still hearing comments. They’re tired and it seems that’s getting ahead of them.

“Keep it slow and we’ll finish at five a.m.” exclaims the almost-asleep-and-fraked-out waitress.

“Did someone cried for me?” screams A. She continues by saying “Whatever you’ll do, our manager will say it’s not ok”.

“Come all, you do the tables, I continue cleaning the floor, let’s go”.

They’re all tired. Some had drinks the night before. Others had a good sleep. Everyone is harrying to get home.

What am I talking about?

Is this the only thing that’s going on here? What about their insides?

PREPARE FOR A LEAK.

THE No. 1 RESTAURANT in the world is in the spotlight. You all know it. Stay tuned for what’s really going on, how we do it and what we really oferring.

I hear a scream. “It’s 02:55! I want to go home! Move!”.

They’re all dressed in black.

Guess the name of the restaurant.

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Diseased desire. 

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 I have sinned.       

      The controversial weather was scary but perhaps, I was more afraid of my own thoughts than that. 

She exaggerated with her mind traveling. The raven’s eyes were stuck in her mind; their dark color was provocative. She was rubbing her finger over her lower lip, slowly while the saliva was gathering in the center of her mouth. It has been days since the stubborn desire had settled inside her and believe me or not, it was a torture. She had the permission to desire anything she wanted; the raven was forbidden. 

That was unscrupulous. The raven is sadistic and yet, sentimental, in the most provocative way. I have seen it around people; it shatters whatever is in the way of the desired object. She was mesmerized by this self-impotency that it inflicted to the crowd. Although aware of this nefarious thought, she is not able to forget it. In such an attempt, she margined herself from the world. She confessed to no one but herself this diseased desire. The world seemed of such pureness. Such a confession would have been a great disappointment. Does the raven know though? Did the devil tipped it off about the ailing needs of an insane woman? What if the insane woman, she and the devil shared the same face? She was still flattering her lower lip with gestures. Her face-lines disappeared. 

Strike one. 

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       I knew that when I will get home from my short trip I would find her in bed sipping wine and words. I never imagined though that the view will be like a thunderstorm on a sunny day. I never imagined that I could feel my soul climaxing, ending and beginning, sobing and smiling. 

     I entered the room and my eyes caught her: almost naked, her left hand holding a burning cigarette, her right hand holding a book, a glass of wine leaning on her waist, one leg straight and the other bent. If that wasn’t enough, you should have seen her face and aura. 

     I took off my pants, I plucked the buttons of my shirt and leaned on my belly diagonally. I lighted up a cigarette and the world just unfold.

     She wasn’t bothered by my presence. I was just staring. In a few moments though, my thoughts were coming out of my mouth. I began a monologue that her smirk interrupted a few times, her eyes blurred, her chick lines continued and her aura; oh, her aura just made my monologue seem insane.

     She asked what I was thinking about and I just could not resist it. Words came out willingly. 

     ” I would say I love you but that underestimates you. I would say you’re perfect but that offends you. I would say you’re the ideal woman but that’s just a classic.” 

     My soul was smiling and her glare was fixed and steady into mine. 

     She smiled. Oh gentlemen, you do not  know that smile. Her lips separate enough to make your body feel the tremor; not too little, not too much. It’s easy to distinguish the line that colors that smile. 

42.

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      Își plecase capul pe genunchiul meu formând un unghi de zece grade spre stânga. O priveam în ochi dar simturile mele erau concentrate pe bătăile inimii Ei. Pulsa de sete iar zâmbetul schițat pe fața Ei indica o dulce tristețe. Acela era momentul realizării; oare este posibil să ai aceiași realizare de mai multe ori cu aceiași intensitate? 

   Lumea mea era asezata pe canapea, fumul excesiv de țigară îngreunând respirația, cel puțin așa mi-am zis eu, în ideea că mă voi crede. O priveam, o admiram, o devoram până am simțit că-mi scap inima. Mă aflasem în punctul în care organul meu vital și-a dat drumul, lăsând picături de sânge să se amestece cu moleculele aerului poluat; îi simțeam bătăile – într-un fel încă avea viață; poate mai în viață de atât nu se putea – în timp ce se pregătea de prăbușire; nu știam ce impact va avea căzătura mea, probabil fatală, dar a prins-o la o distanță de un milimetru.  Își plecase capul pe genunchiul meu formând un unghi de zece grade spre stânga. O priveam în ochi dar simturile mele erau concentrate pe bătăile inimii Ei. Pulsa de sete iar zâmbetul schițat pe fața Ei indica o dulce tristețe. Acela era momentul realizării; oare este posibil să ai aceiași realizare de mai multe ori cu aceiași intensitate? 

Incepusem să respir prin ea; îi furam oxigenul, dându-i cât mai rămăsese din al meu, îl inhalam si îl dădeam înapoi. Fenomenul se repeta continuu cu o exactitate necontrolată a secundelor. Amortisem fizic iar ea își mula perfect mișcările după ale mele. Nu aveam nevoie de gândire pentru a face următorul gest. Eram concentrată doar pe viață, incercam sa trăiesc, efectiv, la propriu, trăiam din Ea și Ea din puținul meu. 

Își pleca capul într-o parte și îi respiram pielea din zona gâtului; aroma ei se transformase în oxigenul meu. Sărutul, acest gest inexplicabil, fizicul, atingerea, nu erau de ajuns. Căutam în mine, undeva, cumva, să gasesc mai mult; nu aveam ce să-i dau mai mult.

În momentul acela am simțit o apăsare, o durere al dracului de frumoasă. Îmi luam oxigenul în continuare de parcă ar fi fost deja o normalitate iar în fața ochilor mei aveam cea mai cumplită imagine a Lumii. Imi priveam inima cum îngenunchează în fața Ei, pleacă jumătate din ea în față, se lasă incet și-și dă drumul în fața Ei. Zâmbeam, mă simțeam cum zâmbesc; ochii mei s-au umplut de lacrimi , gest de admirație a imaginii inimii mele. Mă asteptam la urmatorul său gest. Nu a făcut nimic. Aveam inima in genunchi în fața Ei iar ea o admira precum eu; privirile ei arzând iadul din mine. 

     O priveam lângă mine, îi înconjuram trupul și nu-mi puteam stăpânii dorința de a o inspira. Ochii îi luceau iar zâmbetul era ascuns în spatele unei seriozități ce arăta a realizare. Este oare posibil să ai aceiași realizare de mai multe ori? Căci în privința ei, am aceiași realizare în fiecare noapte și nu se pierde sentimentul de necrezut. 

     

     Mi-am ridicat inima și am pus-o la locul ei odată cu trezirea noastră la realitate. Fermecată de momentele anterioare, mi-a șoptit că mai vrea. I-a făcut plăcere să îngenuncheze în fața Lumii. Oare știa ce își dorește? Oare Lumea urma să o mai prindă? 

Da domnilor, știu, întrebări fără sens. 

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I thought I saw the devil
This morning
Looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue
With the warning
To help me see myself clearer
I never meant to start a fire
I never meant to make you bleed
I’ll be a better man today
I’ll be good, I’ll be good
And I’ll love the world, like I should
Yeah, I’ll be good, I’ll be good
For all of the time
That I never could
My past has tasted bitter
For years now
So I wield an iron fist
Grace is just weakness
Or so I’ve been told
I’ve been cold, I’ve been merciless
But the blood on my hands scares me to death
Maybe I’m waking up today
For all of the light that I shut out
For all of the innocent things that I doubt
For all of the bruises I’ve caused and the tears
For all of the things that I’ve done all these years
And all
Yeah, for all of the sparks that I stomped out
For all of the perfect things that I doubt
I’ll be good, I’ll be good
For all of the times I never could
All of the times I never could.

Antiexemplu.

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Nu-i cunosc povestea soro dar îți voi lămuri incertitudinile prin a-ți prezenta varianta mea, cea imaginară, cea pe care văd prin ochii tăi. Îmi cer iertare anticipat că-mi permit această perversitate. 

Îmi sare in peisaj, imaginea unui Bukowski. Așa îl percep eu. Domnilor, pauză; nu mă întrebați de ce îmi bat capul sa vă povestesc despre el. Ați implorat să o cunoașteți; v-o prezint pe Ea.

Nu fiți atât de ipocriți încât să-mi cereți un nume. Nu vi-l dau. Nu îl meritați. Ea, “Ea” este mai mult decât vă imaginați.

Revenind la el. Sau la “El”.

El părea în ochii mei un paradoxal, un om sărit de pe fix, un bărbat antiexemplu.

În imaginația mea chinuită de gânduri, El este înalt, bine modelat, fața acoperită de un așternut subtil de păr; mi-o imaginez des frecând obrazul ei fin de acea barbă, copil fiind, rareori cât să păstreze stratul subțire de gheață intact. Mi-o mai imaginez fredonând melodii pe ritmul buzelor lui, privindu-l când el se uită înapoi.

Țineți seama cuvintelor mele domnilor. Sunt alese cu atenție și apăsare pe suflet.

Mă întreb dacă și el, ca și Ea, are vreun tic ce-i trădează cursul sângelui. Oare și al lui curge pe verticală?

Își înghițea mâhnirea plutind dar sarea transpirației îi permitea să plutească. Oare ce metaforă o fi aceasta?

Își inhala fericirea precum fumul unei țigări jumătate stinse. O aprofunda. Si Ea, de altfel, o aprofundează. În cazul ei, fericirea era o căzătură a sufletului, o mărginire a iubirii, un instinct ce nu trăda. N-am de unde să știu ce înseamnă pentru El fericirea dar știu că fericirea lui este orice amintire o cuprinde.

Vocile lor se aseamănă; la fel de degajate, extremiste, pline de trăiri. “Iartă-mi expresia”, zise ea.

Mi-am imaginat peisajul dulce și în același timp, amar, al adevărului, al jurămintelor, al iertării, al unui lac calm, al tăcerii.

Se auzea liniștea copleșitoare. Ea surâde cu mândrie la prima mișcare a firului. El o privește uitându-se înainte, spre lac.

Domnilor, nu mai așteptați explicații. O privește ca pe o umbră a sa. Îi cunoaște trăsăturile precum și le cunoaște pe ale lui.

Nu sare în sus de fericire nici la a doua întindere a firului. Își așteaptă momentul. Răbdarea este un dar chinuitor. Firul se strânge și o trage în jos. Este o întreagă artă în a prinde prada perfectă.

Iarăși îi copleșește liniștea amortitoare. Îl vad cum își destinde chipul și îi bate un apropo. Peștele se sperie de râsul ei colorat dar neputincios și perturbat, mușcă.

El comentează ceva cu haz și mândrie. O glumă auzită prin colivii de vrăbii.

“Tată, aruncă-mi momeala aia”, zise Ea.

Cine este Ea?

Tu o cunoști.

Cine este El?

Un alt soi de Bukowski.

El, despre ea.

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     Îmi fură privirea. Mișcările ei se rătăcesc in fața ochilor mei și-mi fură privirea. Îmi spulberă glasul. Este evident că lumea din jur există; numai dacă ai știi că defapt e nesemnificativă!

     Îți plimbi piciorul stâng în cerc; un cerc mic cât să nu se observe mișcarea. Îl aduci aproape de cel stâng si împingi pământul cu vârful lui. În secunda doi a revenit la normal. Ai acționat în stres; oare te stresa privirea mea? Oricum n-ai văzut-o. Dar poate ai simțit-o. Iei comanda lunaticului. O fii și el ca mine?

     Strângi masa corporatistilor îndreptand același picior, cel stâng, in aer; dreptul n-are nicio reacție. Fenomenal. Impecabil. Ce e atât de impecabil? Ai rabdare. Până la urmă o să te prinzi. Impecabil. Ce?

Modul în care se mișcă doar partea corpului ce străpunge în mod direct inima. De parcă sângele ti-ar pompa pe verticală! Oare așa o fi in cazul tău? Oare ție iti pompează sângele doar pe verticală? Oare de aici provine ”impecabilitatea” ta?

     Scoți micul tău jurnal cu rapiditate și zambești larg. Un pic forțat. E de înțeles. Masculul din fața ta nu-ți merită zâmbetul. Pentru câteva secunde nimeni nu-ți vede fața; ai profitat pe deplin de moment pentru a-ți da drumul la buze. S-au întins formând o linie dreaptă. Parcă ironică.

     Gesticulezi cu mâna stânga, fredonând cu degetul pe meniu. Spatele îți este un pic aplecat peste umarul masculului și pentru a – nu știu cât-a oară – piciorul stâng se pliază. Oare ce-ți surâde în cap?

     Așezi o masă de patru; iar folosești doar mâna stânga pe tacâmul ăla. Al patrulea l-ai aranjat cu ambele mâini. Oare ce a fost in capul tău în momentul acela?

     Ți-ai scos iar jurnalul si pixul.  Te joci cu ele, cu mâna stângă bineînțeles; forțând o privire spre masa din fața mea. Oare coada ochiului tău m-a prins?

    Te îndepărtezi de mine în grabă, îți cauți de lucru; de data asta gesticulând cu mâna dreaptă.

Te-ai apropiat de blonda sprijinită de casă și ți-ai înfipt mâinile în ceafa ei. Ai zâmbit, lăsând greutatea ta pe stângul.

     Ți un pahar de spumă in stânga, mergând cu bărbia în sus, citesc un zâmbet ecstatic pe fața ta; oare îți place să fii privită?

Hm. Nu mă pot abține din a zâmbi de data asta. A fost prea de tot.

Iar ai mângâiat pământul cu vârful piciorului stâng, el îndreptat spre mine iar fața ta perpendiculara cu a mea; asta o înțelegi doar dacă poți să vezi și tu perpendicular in aer.

     Te-am lăsat un pic în pace dar parcă îmi vine sa te privesc din nou. Iar faci mișcarea aia cu piciorul stâng. Ce ai ființă cu pământul?

     Te duci la masa mediocrilor și râzi. Dacă ar știi ei ca tu defapt ai râs in ciuda lor!

    Timpul se scurge repede. Te văd peste zidul de lemn luând nota cu un zâmbet de “pleacă acasă dar nu mă uita”. Satisfăcută te întorci la colțișorul tău si îndrepți o privire doritoare spre masa de lângă. Ți-a surâs un corporatist. E de înțeles.

     Setezi iar o masă mușcând încet din buze. A fost un gest de nervozitate. Oare știai că te privesc?

Te-am pierdut în spatele unui perete; mai revine un pic în spate zâmbetul tău și te pierd iar. Pleci in grabă și un mascul îndrăgostit te fură de la spate. Ah. Ar fi fost ceva daca aveai ochi să-l vezi! A flirtat lejer cu spatele tău. Am râs.

     Iar ai dispărut. E greu să țin pasul picioarelor tale; să nu mai zic de expresiile feței sau de gândurile păcătoase.  Ești impecabilă oricum. Parcă așa am picat de acord ca vei fi in ochii mei, nu?

     Îți aud vocea la masa de lângă. Fascinant. Ce culoare i-ai dat!

     Îmi stă un drac pe gând și nu te scapă din priviri.

     Hm. Ce lent te miști cu paharele reci în mâna! Sensual. Impecabil.

     Torni spumă în paharul înalt, extrem de concentrată; atât încât sprâncenele se arcuiesc spre linia de înjumătățire a feței; cine nu te-a urmărit ar fi zis ca te-ai încruntat într-un mod nesimțit.

     Îți ți greutatea in piciorul stâng, corpul încordat si mă privești în ochi. Buzele tale au schițat un zâmbet cât de cât inocent, un pic ascuns, cu o idee de senzualitate, iarăși impecabil.

     Le mulțumești mediocrilor. Iar i-ai definit prin zâmbet. De unde să știe săracii că judecata le turna apă în pahare?

N-ar mai fi fost mediocri dacă îți recunoșteau chipul.

     Ai dat cu meniul diagonal în cineva, zâmbind a realizare, lăsând cumva să ți se ude buza de jos. Oare ce gândeai?

     Deja simt vinul în organism; în zâmbet. Fredonezi melodia. Hm. Pretty woman. Tocmai ți-ai plimbat limba pe buze. Oare știi ce am gândit?

Brutal.

Seducător.

Fascinant.

Sensual.

Păcătos.

Impecabil.

     Ia sa te văd la asta. O vei fredona?

Mă trag mai la stânga pentru a te vedea mai bine.  Am trecut toată dimineața peste melodia asta. Nu știu de ce n-am vrut să o ascult. La dracu!

Râzi. In momentul ăsta îți verși sufletul. Hm. L-ai băgat la loc repede.

“Acel ceva în mișcarea ta.”

A tresărit în mine versul și mi s-a aprins un zâmbet pe buze. Da, s-a aprins. Am zis bine. De ce? Mi-a zâmbit sufletul.

     Nu mai ești in peisaj așa ca pot să zâmbesc liniștit.  Fără să mă trădez. Cel puțin nu către tine. Restul mediocrilor au permisiunea mea să vadă. Corporatiștii oricum nu mă văd; poate de ăia mă mai interesa pentru că suntem aceasi nație de la nouă la șase. Restul sunt doar mediocri.

Hai să-ți explic de ce.

     Cuplul din diagonala mea nici nu-și închipuie că defapt vor fi un cuplu. Femeia își ține picioarele încrucișate in direcția bărbatului; își ascunde zona intimă cu legătura picioarelor dar de fapt nu se prinde ca mâna ei dreaptă a dezvăluit zona gâtului. S-a trădat singură. Piciorul ei stâng joacă a nervozitate.  El este greu de studiat căci îi văd doar spatele. Pot sa zic totuși cu o certitudine jignitoare că umerii lui sunt paraleli cu umerii ei iar corpul sta lăsat in fața. Ceva îi ține din joc. Ea se întinde spre el iar el se trage instinctiv si vice versa. Mediocritatea asta, ce face din om!

Râzi cu glasul tare și mă distragi. Iarăși colorezi cu râsul tau. Vii spre mine zâmbind și ma induci in eroare. Ți-aș fi furat un sărut sau mai multe dar ma abțin.

Cei trei mediocrii din diagonala mea perfectă și-au făcut ieșirea. Bineînțeles îi așteaptă pluta…

…va urma.

Addicted.

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We should stop seeing each other.
We should stop playing with our demons.
I inhale you. I can feel your hands touching me from a distance. The untamed desire sets me on fire. It burns and I cannot stop. Your smirk excites me. Your hands fill me and I breath deeply, exhaling hard and coming. You come closer to my lips without touching me. It’s exasperating. Half of my body is wet and the other half is wizened. I’m losing control and I am lifting my chin towards you. You’re half smiling again passionately, moving your head around. I am still powerless, licking my lip needy. You’re playing with my desire. You push yourself inside me and my voice trembles. I am losing it. I grab your neck and squeeze you hard as you keep pushing and insisting on me with that smirk of satisfaction.
We should stop.
You let go of me easily and I am relieved.
Your demons won’t leave me alone while your hands are playing with the line between my back and my front. You run gently between my legs and hardly getting inside I find myself coming unexpectedly.
You run your body on me, throwing words into my mouth, without letting me taste you.
We should stop seeing each other.
It’s becoming addictive.
I want you.
Your mind is heroine. Your perfume is cocaine. Your lips… oh those lips!
We should stop.
I wish I wanted it to stop.

Denial.

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I have to talk about it. I have to think about it. I have to decide on it. I have to and all I wish is that I hadn’t.

There is that nod again; a feeling that I haven’t felt for a long time. It’s suffocating. That would be the perfect description for the way my insides are twisting up to my lungs. It bitters me to admit that I feel caged again. I want to break free but my heart stops me.

I am sitting on the corner of the bed, inhaling polluted air, imploring my thoughts to stand down for a bit and give me piece. You’re having your usual pause from any noise that may come out of your mouth. I have been wasting saliva for so long and with it, I wasted myself.

I am in deep waters, swimming, hoping that my miserable soul won’t lose control.

I want to be free and I want to be me. That’s what I said.

You didn’t hear me. You heard another story.

The end.

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Short, straight, burnt caramel hair. I do not know of her eyes, neither their form nor their colour. Her smirk forced me to lower my chin while smiling back. I only observed her laughter and few of her gestures. I’ve also heard her curse and her face was extremely calm. She excused herself with a deep breath. 

Later today, she walked by, eyes on the ground, a little bit tired, that’s how she seemed to me. Before that, she came again in the room. This time I looked at her eyes when her glare was focusing elsewhere. I saw the same burnt caramel colour. 
Her shirt was too chaotic, unfit, out of her standards. It amazes me how easily she changes. Her sceptical staring permitted me to watch her closer. The moment she laughed I tried to take my eyes of her but still, the chaotic shirt caught my eye. 
I was telling you about earlier when she walked by me. She gave me a quick look but I did not let our eyes meet, I narrowed my chin to the ground once again. The skin on the back of my neck tightened. 
It was something special about this woman, a mystery I will not understand but I wish I could explore.

uncensored.

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Posted: https://livelovesmilee.wordpress.com/2014/06/22/do-you-love-him/

Original post (uncensored):

          Dear stranger,
I do not. Perhaps what I am saying seems a little, or a lot, nonsensical but you asked for my sincere answer and you should know that a sincere answer is what I am giving to you. I do not love him. I find it easy to admit or agree to such a thing and the reason why is simpler than you could ever percept. Whatever this feeling that cursed me is, it goes deeper than love. Since humans haven’t found a word for that yet or we may never find, I won’t let myself indulged into its’ charm. For love I have felt and it was not like this. It was indeed powerful, every emotion was triggered by it, but now, now it’s more than that. Now, the infinity of my feelings transfixes my body and has turned my feelings into a hunting warren. A warren of desire, seduction, empathy, vivacious feelings, feelings that if you ask me; I could even live for as eternity lies at dawn.
Maybe I should let you know, hoping you would understand my questioning this ”love” you want to name, that I have become a feathery person, sometimes even feeble. I am asking you please not to judge me or try to convince me that I should reconsider my statements, all because I will not. I am not gloomy. Do not ever understand that. I am as flippant as the hays of the sun on the sunup. You should see my expression now. A sough just escaped my lips, such a sweet and perky sough! It’s tingling my heart; this image of a demi-vierge person who craves for me as I crave for him every night. This rapture or cannibalistic need of flesh, which many of us may not understand, it’s provoking me a deep sensation of amour. I do not say love dear stranger. Mark that. I am biting my lower lip at the very moment and the hotness in the air has made my skin sweat. My humid lips have a salty taste of sweat. The hot breeze, the closed window, the feeble night, they all remind me of him. They all make me crave him even more, even sweeter. How can I make it understandable to you dear stranger?
In a parallel reality, where he exists only for me, or we might say that he is here for me, he touches my lower lip, undressing it from its’ salty taste with his own big softy lips. I fear writing to you the rest of the details so if you wish you can stop reading. If not, well…read on.

     I have a need to reprint into words the dream that fed my desire two nights ago. I was intrigued dreaming the same thing twice in one night. Perhaps, or as someone today implied, it was either my fear or desire, that broke the chains to dreaming wetly. Yes, dear stranger, wetly.

     In a former letter I have described you the expression on his face, of my saturnine man of course, but I omitted the erotic details. Those are that I am thinking about though. As I said, passion and rapture feed my dreams. His hand ran into me. As you see it, into me. Filling me completely. And oh! I would be called a liar if I didn’t admit that I loved it. More importantly, I felt it. My dream felt more real than any other dream. I am embarrassed admitting such a thing, or concerned of my own burning desires. However, I should tell. It was more than one sensation. My body was flooded. I felt like an ocean which couldn’t support any more water. Close to every imagination I have had, this dream pulled me to the edge, as all I have been thinking about the last forty eight hours is that.

     On a third long parallel line, runs my heart competing to all the above or helping them get to infinity. I do not know what it actually does but I feel it running. It has become a beast, a warrior among cyclops. I shall not lie, I do feel deep feelings for him. As I said at the beginning, it is all about some other inexplicable feeling that has not been yet named because there is no greater than that. Writing the last sentence, perhaps I stupefy my own self for writing about ‘love’ as the greatest of all, but you should know, I am not. All I want you to do is understand the difference.

     If I was a bird, closed into a roost, perhaps he would be my branch. In other words, he would be the freedom I have gained for myself. In even more words, he would be the one thanks to whom I have set my wings free to live without perks or boundaries, waking up every morning, setting my self to sleep, all with the knowledge of something greater than what we already know. Perhaps, life is all about that dear stranger. Perhaps not. You should not indulge into my thoughts, just listen and understand them.
As I said, I do not seek my cage anymore.”

Healing.

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There is an intermediate phase that characterizes loss. There exist three types of loss and you would all wish to remain with the taste of the one mentioned in the very beginning. Firstly, we have the untamed loss, the painful and dreadful feeling that something is missing, the agony of losing one self too, the suffocation with one’s skin. I would never wish such a misfortune. There is also the liberating loss, the one that was truly necessary and amiable, the one that is rare to encounter but still less painful than the previous one. Most commonly we face the first type of loss.

Once your own skin is suffocating you and the knife on your chest is pulling your bones out, there is a significative probability that you might not be able to cry. In that moment, the pain is stored inside and as a consequence, the breathing process gets a lot harder. In that moment, say or think of something that your ego or the circumstances would not permit you to say; say “I love you”, “I’m sorry”, say whatever you hold back. The moment you liberate your mind from the things that you kept behind, the heart takes over and lets the pain spread.
My eyes became tearful in a few milliseconds. I blinked and the river flew harmonically off my eyes. The healing process had already began.   

Tears.

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The night was terrifying and silent. The void let the other emotions burst freely on the surface. It was the first time in months that a raindrop touched the earth without any hesitation. It fell abruptly from the eye and the second one followed. I was feeling the humidity in the air days now, but the heart of stone did not believe in giving in. The mind of the sinner refused to drown and fought hard to unravel the tangled thoughts. The meteorologists and my heart had predicted a thunderstorm. After the first raindrops, the others followed easily. It was hard to sham the pain as every thunder hit the bones of the thorax. The filmstrip seemed infinite. Myself and the tawny woman, both rubbed our forehead and covered our eyes. I could feel the skin under my nails hurting but the rain had to be stopped. I had created an ocean in which my sadness could reflect itself as if it had taken a human form; fine beauty, long curly hair, sparkling eyes. I wondered what is the source of that sparkle; radiating happiness, disturbing melancholy or painful regret?

Sinner old man.

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     There were not necessary many gestures to get my eyes filled with tears. My grandfather’s arm on my shoulder was enough. Not many words either. Just his saying that I will always have him.
     I always saw my grandpa as a sinner. I did not know any of his sins but that’s what I saw in him. Through his sins, I would also see his affection and love. As a man born in the 50’s, he was not the kind to share his  feelings openly. He did it differently, as if he was ashamed of them or me.
     When I was a little girl, he used to come and take me for long walks. He made me see the world from a different level; 2 meters height to be more specific. My legs would play freely around his neck, my fingers would twist though his hair and my eyes would not stop sparkling. He carried me on his shoulders from the mountains to my grandma’s house. He was proud of his first born niece. Two years after, he used to pick me up from school. I would climb the hill to home with him and our discussions would be nothing but childish. Even back then, I used to see him as a sinner but his sins loved me. Not long after that time, he got sick and I lost him for ten years. To be honest, I do not recall a lot of moments with him those years. I have one image though that I cannot forget. It was at the beginning of his worsts and as his illness hadn’t been defined by any doctor, we defined it ourselves. Even now, we live by the same theory; psychical exhaustion. As I was saying, I remember him making sounds of different animals; snakes, frogs, the perfect imitation. His eyes were turbulent. It was dark outside and the room had been filled with his growling. My grandmother had gone to call the priest, my little aunt was standing as still as a tree and her face had all shades of yellow. My older aunt was sitting on her knees in front of him, crying and praying. I was in the corner of the room, tantalizing my eyes from my grandfather to my crying aunt. I would never forget those few minutes; neither my aunt’s tears nor my grandpa’s sounds. I also remember that when the priest stepped in, his condition got worse. I do not recall the next hours or days. I grew up visiting them in summer. His stare would not leave the noisy black box and his body won’t get out of the house. That’s how he lived until 2010 when my grandma called, saying that her husband went to the city and he wants to come to visit us. No word about those ten years had been said to him.
     Today, he came after me on the streets as I was talking a short walk. I saw that profound affection for me through his kind touch and still, his sins love me.

Question marks.

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Close to the shore, where the tiny waves hit the dry sand, I found a seashell that whispered to my ear your name. I fell in love once again. I used to find the way of someone turning into ruins that many would admire without knowledge of history quite exciting; but in moments of tiredness, the excitement goes away. The pain turns into disturbing anger and the person that once was your beloved, inspires a kind of disgust. I strongly believe that feeling is more painful than the pain of a lost love. The way you see a person changes; the emotions are stripped of their purity. In a way, this theory may seem a bit absurd or driven, but it cannot be worse than living with the sentiment of guilt; the last coming as a consequence of the person’s inability or thought of inability to give someone else what they need. Perhaps, you have given your best and tried for more; if the person beside you doesn’t want to receive or doesn’t give you the chance to prove yourself; then it is simply not your fault. 
In the middle of the day, I discovered that the physical exhaustion was just an excuse for my doubtful thoughts. My soul was tired, on the edge of giving up. Would I be blamed if I did so? The pain of a lost love I would tolerate more than the loss of respect towards myself. But what if I’m wrong?