Scarlet.

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      There was a time when the surface of the ocean was calm and irresistibly warm. I no longer cry for those times or try to establish them back into my life. Her untamed laughter can be easily compared to a huge rock striking the surface of the ocean. It creates an explosion inside me as if the dramatic and insane moments are not enough; I am asking for more. Sometimes I find myself worrying about the end of this hide and seek game. What if this insanity is all I need? What if the future becomes predictable?
     I put you through these ramblings of mine without telling you who am I talking about or how this infatuation began. I don’t know if the beginning matters to you but it definitely matters to me. I shall began first with the exquisite part of this journey which is definitely Her.
     She’s a woman that holds the privilege of being pure, as her name indicates so. Her natural brown hair hangs hardly in a ponytail or just caught with a clamp. She hardly lets it reveal her feminism. I looked up some old photographs of hers where she looked a lot like a carefree child, tanned and glittery. The sun adores her. She’s a woman that fights the winter days and loves the dawns at the sea. Her pale skin is always radiant and her eyes…well, those eyes have a lot to say. Perhaps that is where I can stop the description. The color of her eyes is something between autumn and spring; I think that the exact shade is called moss. She’s of a strange innocence when she smiles but that’s not easy to see as it is well hidden behind her temper. Her pace is always quick as if the road is long and she must hurry to reach the destination.
I still remember the magnificent view of her on that steel chair, sipping her latte, wearing her scarlet robe. That was the day I fell for her and it seems that I am still falling ever since.

Mourning.

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    We were falling into the temptation of giving up. There wasn’t much left of us than our misery. Our hearts had locks and chains. I don’t know if he wanted to save mine but I was tired of trying to save his. Sadness was my goddess now and I worshipped her so deeply that it consumed me .
The night had fallen darkly and noisy. The skies were also compelled by my goddess. Her pale pink dress fitted her perfectly, like the spring flowers fit their season. My imagination could make everything seem of such a beauty. I was silent and destroyed. There were sorrows gasping inside me and earthquakes diminishing everything that I had built.
There was a thing about his touch that disappointed me. A feeling of betrayal perhaps. He savaged my body and I savaged his. It never felt like a romantic intercourse that would lift you up to heavens, neither an unpleasant connection.
My chest is hurting and a nod is blocking my respiratory system. The way my saliva stops at some point  through my lungs it’s annoying and painful.
My soul is completely wrecked. I wish I could shout this pain out of my chest and drown the world with my tears but even that is impossible. I have lost all of my intimacy; all that I had. Now it’s all of me, standing by the window, sobbing, waiting for the next snowflake to fall down on earth so I can mourn about it until the morning comes.

Dizziness.

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    We live in fear of admitting everything that ponders in our hearts. I gave my all to you and I am still wondering if my current denial comes as a consequence to all the drama we had. I find misinterpretations walking back and forward in my mind. An inner voice is still whispering words of love or pain. I cannot distinguish what dominates in me, whether I am free or locked in my own desperation. The nights of September have brought upon me a new sentimental crisis. It feels like a dizziness. I see my soul on its’ knees praying and I am wondering: for what? Am I praying for more consuming love or it’s just an immense desire for freedom?

     I live in fear because my dreams stopped challenging me. Everything is blurred and I blame myself for that. I am responsible for suffocating my heart. It has been long since nobody conquered me. I have always been emotionally occupied and it feels exhausting. Even now that I am not in love with someone, my soul is still chained. Do I need someone to break the chains? I wish I could do it myself.
     The insanity of these long nights have created a vacuum, a dark space between the past and the present. I do not want to tickle my heart’s chords, I want them to be left in piece, untouched. There is a battle taking place inside me but I cannot see the two parties fighting or the results of the war. No matter how hard I try to understand what is going on inside me I see nothing. In vain I struggle to control my demons. I will let them defeat each other. There is no other way.

Fatalism.

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     How many words are born to impress? Not many. This one is. Fatalism.
Its’ eight letters embrace the deepest theories and feelings. I wonder whether the future agrees with me or not. But if, if we were allowed to believe that it was destined to be together, then let it be. I wish no insult to your thoughts but perhaps this is an accurate explanation to whatever tickles my insides. I do not know yet if there is an existing term for the sensation you give me.
The summer rain scares me. It’s hiding the sun, messing around with the moon. The heavens are desperately screaming. I feel my heart collapsing into a vacuum. The raindrops stretched on my skin daringly but I insisted on moving my hand back to safety. I wouldn’t let the rain touch me. I feared for a second it will take this inexplicable dulcet feeling away. The thought of it only electrified me.
The night falls into pieces of darkness, abstract lines of lightning and terrifying sounds of summer’s revengefulness. The earth implores the skies. I hear it praying for more. I wonder what ‘more’ means; even my heart wonders how ‘more’ would be.
Sometimes skipping the tormenting theories calls off the fear. At least in my case, it is gone. I smiled unwillingly while my mind faded in your aura.
Your head was resting beside me, your hand wrapped around my hips. I could not close my eyes. I felt I had to stay awake, watch over you. I was running my hand through your hair, on your cheek, close to your lips. Your lips curved into a smile when I touched your lower one but I feared I will intervene with your dream so I moved it back through your hair.
I felt my eyes closing but I would not dare sleep. The music, that specific song which I had on repeat while hoping your subconscious serves you a good dream, got me thinking about us. I had many questions vandalising my mind. The atmosphere was silent. The first hays of the sun hit the window and an unusual lightness fogged my question marks. I felt non existent but still attached to your skin. I smiled without knowing the exact reason. Or at least, without thinking of it. However, it was obvious.
Perhaps for a moment I had it all. Summer. Lightness. A song. White sheets. You.
That morning, I needed nothing more. So the earth needs nothing more. Tonight it is fed with water. In the morning I dare saying the sun will rise, his hays will burn sweetly.

What would you answer?

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”If you were given a book with the story of your life, would you read the end?” That was the question that went back and forth in my mind the whole day. Then it came to me;
If one day my own daughter asked me; I’d advice her to close the book and burn it. Not as a symbol of burning her whole life down but with the hope to create a new one, or maybe the same one that’s written down, spontaneously, living every moment, creating all her memories, as if she had never lived them again.

A Friend in Need – Fragment –

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Her kitchen was pretty small and after my ‘’art’’ we stayed there and talked. Perhaps that’s the wisest thing M ever said. The most sincere and the most unlikely to come true too.

‘’Why are you so sad?’’ she asked, as her purple glasses made her eyes seem so huge. I gazed up at her and held my breath for a second. Then I let it all out and my happy face got confused. How could she see the sadness behind my smile? My emotions were mixed up.

‘’I talked to him. Actually, he talked to me.’’ I said with one breath.

‘’I saw. So aren’t you happy he talked to you? Why all the sudden disappointment?’’ M was persistent and I couldn’t lie to her. Nor tell her nothing. She had a way to get it all out of me.

‘’I am actually mad he talked to me. You know it was hard for me to forget about him even if I never did. And now we had a pretty good conversation but I know he’s into someone. A told me. Besides, he told me too. And I’m happy for him, I’m happy we talked, but still; I can’t hide the fact that I miss him and that I still like him.’’ I desperately answered to her questions.

‘’I know dear. I really understand the way you feel and I’ve never seen anyone talk the way you talk about him. I don’t know what’s going to happen next but in my heart I know you two belong together. I don’t know how I assume it but I can feel it.’’ She replied. A trace of amusement and peace covered her face. Perhaps it was hope. I don’t know what was it but the way she talked gave me happiness. My face smiled all of a sudden as a tear wet her chick. Then I burst in tears too. I don’t even know if it was because of sadness or happiness. As I said, my emotions were mixed up too deep my mind to reach and define them. M hugged me so warm the second she saw me crying.

‘’You don’t deserve that. You suffer too much for this guy and I’ll be damned if I won’t be right.’’ She added grinning. In a way, in her way, she calmed me. Days after that night, I came back to my senses. I started ‘’forgetting’’ him again. Every night since then, I remember myself when going to sleep making up a story I know won’t even come true. So I used to plot all kind of scenarios with ”him”. I had nothing to lose from them. I got used to the imagination thing and I knew that my life won’t even bring him in my way. 

THE WRITER WHO COULD NOT WRITE

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            Inspiration came only through his fingers when he touched feelings. Literally. Only the moments that made him shiver of fear or happiness gave him words to put on a paper. He could stay with the pen in the hand as many nights as he could stay awake without writing a single word on paper. He knew what he had to write. He knew what he felt. He knew the story. But the images were blurred in his mind and words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Lines and lines were blocked in his mind. It was disappointing for him not to write. He was so young and ready to take upon life.

            That cold winter night was the 6th he hadn’t slept. Six days and nights he stood above his desk staring at a blank paper. The 365-pages book he planned to write was minus 6. He lost six days of that year staring at a little dot on the corner of the blank page letting words passing through his mind, without letting them be on a paper. In a rush he grabbed his coat and the door behind him hit so hard, it woke up his dog which was sleeping nearby the fireplace. Pitt, that’s our future writer’s name, made a first step on the front stairs and he stopped when he saw the snow. It was a stormy weather, empty streets, only a couple of days after Christmas. It was dark outside and the houses’ windows were foggy. He decided to walk. He passed nearby the baker’s shop, the grocery shop. No human soul on the view. Finally he reached the coffee shop around the corner. It’s windows were foggy too and the view inside wasn’t clear. Only a lonely woman standing at the bar could be seen through the fogginess. He decided to walk in. He had days to interact with people. Some voice from far away said “Pitt!”. He made his eyes small to see who it was. It was his drunk neighbor who let everyone know the name of our writer. Pitt raised his hand as a sign of hello and continued his way to the bar. He ordered his usual scotch. His mind blurred again and his eyes got a neutral look, like staring at nowhere.

            Our Pitt was good-looking and so mysterious. I guess that’s his magnetism. His eyes, green, his smile, crystal clear and his body language deceiving. He looked like the man who wouldn’t have a problem. Who would think that actually behind his richness he would hide so misery. Yeah, I forgot to mention. He was rich. You may wonder why would he be so disappointed if he couldn’t write. He had the money to live, why would he need a job? The answer is kind of complicated. His wealth came from his family. That was something he always hated. He wanted to be something. He wanted to create and give the world something significant that he would be remembered about after his death. Even from a young age, that were his plans. Until someday, when he met love and as usual it got complicated. He had heard about love but he never believed in it. Of course, that until the day he realized what love means for him. That love inspired him. Words were easy. He got fluent. Nothing could stop his mind producing. But it seems, there was something that could make it – love -. It reborn him and then killed him softly. It has been three months since Lizzie left him and the look on his face remained still since then. He had no expression. The scotch hit the bar hard when he drunk the last drop. The lonely woman next to him gave him a straight look into the eye. Pitt suddenly felt something. Perhaps it wasn’t love from the first sight, neither happiness, not even attraction. It was a strange feeling. I’d say it was a desire to talk to someone. He decided to give it a shot and gave her a smile. It was a miracle after so much time. He finally had an expression on his face. Maybe the smile was fake, though it was a start. It was sign, that his misery might be over. Sabrina, said the woman and smiled back. Without letting him spill his name she continued by saying; “Yes, Pitt, I know, I heard”. He smiled again and asked to buy her a drink. Obviously she accepted. And that’s how hope knocked his door again…

TO BE CONTINUED…