Light

 Light

If you hear someone weeping
with diamond tears and paper heart
stretch your hand and reach me
I am right behind you.

If night seems too long to endure
and the gods will not listen to your voice
keep walking into the endless tunnel
I am right in front of you.

If you fall and hurt your angel face
and your knees betray you and refuse to support you
keep your head high and you will find a ray of light
I am right above you.

The girl who went away

The girl who went away

Part One

“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.” , Alfred Lord Tennyson

I picture me and her on a mountain, in some reverie, wild and free

Laughing and joking, smoking, drinking our worries away.

Her timeless beauty, the way she moved and melted, they captivated me

And If I sinned, gladly for her the price I would pay.

She stood at the edge of the mountain reciting heartfelt poems

And her eyes were shining with unbridled, honest joy.

My mind was blown, deprived of worries, anxieties and problems

As she kissed my mouth and tenderly called me her little boy.

Her memory is one of those that rejuvenate in the summer

When the smell of the sea and the grains of the sand form her pretty face

These times I’d drink and wake up lonely and desperate the morning after

Helplessly looking for this girl that inspired in me so many tales.

And as much as I’ve tried to lead this girl astray

From my fingers she slipped like a careless sun ray

Who would imagine that this girl would go away!

Part two

“I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that's real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

What have I become?

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end

You could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of shit

Upon my liar's chair

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here…”, Nine Inch Nails, ‘Hurt’

I saw her again, on a cold winter night

When my heart was frozen and my feelings were numb

Her eyes pierced me, full of sadness and fright

As I looked at her with signs of some once powerful love.

She looked cold and her eyes were shining no more

And her smile was gone and her voice

Like a little girl that made a wrong choice

Was barely heard any more.

“Where is my little girl gone?” I asked her gloomily.

Expecting a careless, happy, pretty response

With a wild and excruciating force

She replied to me somewhat crudely:

“Who are you, what do you want, why do you talk to me?”

Shocked by her attitude towards her little boy, me

I told her if she remembered those hot August nights.

When I’d hold her tight and let her sleep in my hands

And she’d whisper to me “I hope this never ends”.

She waved negatively, and I tried to grab her hand

Only to see wounds, painfully red.

All her fears and insecurities, dreadfully fed

To the demon that escaped his lair under the bed.

I looked her in the eyes, that were blank, sad and mad

Tried to speak a word of love, but my mouth went numb

If I kissed her, she wouldn’t remember

If I loved her, she wouldn’t know

If I sang her songs, she wouldn’t hear

She is long gone, a memory dimly lit.

And all the poems she recited play in my mind

Like a song that hasn’t died of the typhoon of time

And I hear him say “For thine is life”

Then, why do I feel this strange impulse to die?

Part Three

“My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.” , Walt Whitman

A few months later, as I lay in bed

With a couple of diverse poems tangling in my head

I heard her name on the noisy TV

Clear and free, excruciatingly clean

“Emma Lee, a young beautiful girl was found dead

In an alley, after a heroin overdose.

She was a 20-year-old student…”

What shall I do now? Help me! I’m lost in dismay

How can I live with the fact that I won’t see her someday

Smiling to me, singing songs, playing in the sand with my hair

Reciting poems and crying for things she wished she hasn’t said

Drinking with me, emptying the bottle and dance in the moonlight

Embrace the sky with her hands, longing to fly like a kite?

How can I live while dying of so much torturing pain?

How can I live while my girl has silently gone away?

The Canvas

And as I walked down the street, it was dark, and the darkness filled my eyes, burderened my soul and killed my strength. I had to urge, to put my mind to work, and find a way out of this life that I never agreed on living.

When I was young, I bought myself a canvas. A blank, clear canvas, with no color stains on it. Not a single sign of interference. It was all mine to draw, to create from the very beginning. But from the very beginning, while I was still trying to figure out what to draw, I had instructors, tutors, people I never knew telling me what to draw. They didn't focus much on the content, but on the techniques. I never liked techniques. I am a lover of impulse, of spontaneity. I like using my heart, the only organ I need to be alive. What would art be, had I ripped my heart out and used cold logic? But, no. I was wrong. So they said. They told me I had to draw straight lines, not curved ones. Not a single drop of blue should be found out of these lines. I was to be persecuted and rebuked had I made a single, impulsive mistake. I had to be fully prepared, with carriages of knowledge in my head, with a notion of perfection without having experienced a single moment of mistakeness. I had to be infallible without stumbling, falling and getting back again. How could I be perfect? They all say perfection does not exist, but we all must strive to gain it. But how? How can you gain something that doesn't exist? I had questions. But all people ever did was moving my hand on the canvas and showing me how to do the perfect without having encountered the imperfect. 

Now I have a perfect, according to the general standards, canvas, but an imperfect dazzle and confusion.
Thus, whenever I walk down the street where the canvas store is located, I wonder, why did I let people paint the canvas? Why did I never release my hand from theirs? Why did I never try to be indepedent and let it shine?

Bits and Pieces

My soul is everywhere in this town. Bits and pieces of my most secret thoughts lie in its streets, reflect themselves in the water of the melancholic, sudden, cleansing autumn rain. In the background, you can hear the Smiths singing "Asleep"..."Sing me to sleep...sing me to sleep...don't try to wake me in the morning 'cause I will be gone...". Nothing's gone. Everything is still here. The stain on the clothes, the broken window, the dusty old books lying idlely on the floor. Everything that happened here is waking up, brought back from the dead, rejuvenates and sits opposite of me, reminding me of its constant presence and effect on my routine.

When I lay my body on the bed, I'm trying to think of stories that bring a smile to my face. Stories that I can tell and be glad to narrate. Stories that are only bright-colored, with touches of gold and silver and exquisite beauty. Suddenly, the world caves in. I can feel a thousand people lying in beds like me, and thinking about stories, memories, events so selfishly bound to our minds, so inevitably important for our future. All these people, like me, recollect bad stories as well. Sad stories ,full of gloom, full of darkness. Not everything we have is showered in light. Without dark, there would be no light. What is light? The mere absence of dark. Without the one, the other ceases to exist. Beauty cannot exist without ugliness. Beautiful memories would be a waste of time without the ugly ones. We collapse but we get back up. This is the magic of being a human; one has to constantly deal with the contrasts of life; the painfull challenges and the enchanting triumphs. The essence of life.

It's night and I cannot get any sleep. I can hear the wind blowing outside and a million leaves landing on my balcony. The melancholy of autumn, the serenity of the night, the reluctant light that sneaks in my bedroom are enough to fill my mind with thoughts, assumptions, dreams, hopes. I capture my own mind dreaming of what it could be, living in hypotheses. I'm addicted to hypotheses. They offer me this uncomparable feeling of change, this feeling that someday, things aren't going to be the same as they are now, on his dead hour of this still night. I know, that one day, I won't be lying here, on this bed, addicted to my dreams and trapped in my stable life. I will be somewhere else, discussing, or just staring at the sky. Simple moments matter, because they are enough to rejuvenate the lost joy and hope.

I live among assumptions and hopes and dreams. But there is a certain thing I promised to myself and I will never break this promise. This promise is the meaning of life, the reason why I'm still fighting. I made a promise to myself; I will never, ever play the role of a mere spectator of my own life. I will be the protagonist, I will shape it, I will make it the way I want it to be. This is the core of life, the hidden treasure of it; not let it pass before your eyes, like a movie, but direct it yourself.

Inspiration or the issues of a writer

Sometimes, I wish inspiration arrived whenever I want it to. I am sitting here, staring at the wall, or reading my book, and not paying attention to the words of the book but creating stories in my head, bits and pieces of poems and stories, but when I take my eyes off the wall or the book, I forget everything. My mind is blank.

I do not want to change the world through my writings. But on the other hand, claiming that I write only for myself is quite stupid, since I choose to post my writings on the Internet. However, not all of my work is posted online, but a major part of it is on the net, yes. Everytime I write anything, I am trying to put my thoughts in an order that makes sense and is most faithful to my personal writing style. My aim is not only to express how I feel or to open up a little, but also awaken people's feelings, alarm them, shock them, make them remember, everything that can create a fire inside them, a fire of love, a fire of hate, a fire of anger, a fire of eros. Feelings are dead, nowadays. Or hastily expressed. Or no expressed at all.

It is sad living in a society that abolishes human feelings. Acting like robots, trying to be impressive, nice-looking, successful, publicly acceptable, politically correct. Is this all life is about? No. We are born to feel, to feel rage flooding inside us like a wild river, to fight, to reach for the sky, but not to forget that the sky is not the limit. Whoever claimed that it is actually the limit, has little experience of the world. We are born to fall in love, fall in hate, cry, scream on the top of our lungs, sing, dance, talk to ourselves at nights, do countless things based on our feelings. Hiding our feelings makes us miserable, makes us not humans. You are not a human if you don't feel. You are a robot, something cold, mechanical, controlled.

Sometimes, I really wanna write. I sit there, trying to compose a text that makes sense, but sometimes words are scattered here and there, like the pieces of a puzzle which must be put together so that the puzzle can reveal a beautiful landscape, or a pretty picture. I am trying to pick them up and make them stand in a row, one after the other, always faithful to the syntactical structure of the language I am writing in, but they do not obey me. They seem to cherish their anarchy, their sense of freedom, their being here and there and doing what they want and not what the writer expects them to do. So I just leave my chair and read something so that my ability of bringing together words can come up and allow me to compose a text that makes sense.

Sometimes, I have a poem or a story so exquisitely composed in my head, while I'm in bed, trying to get some sleep. When I wake up, it's all gone, as if a witch has hacked my brain overnight and magically wiped any moments of inspiration away. I am trying to recall the general concept of the poetry or the short story but it's practically impossible, in a way that makes me wonder whether they actually existed or they were part of a dream which I rendered it reality, while I was dreaming it. I cannot control my mind and my inspiration.

Now, THAT is a text that makes sense. Next time I have some pretty decent inspiration, I will try to note something down so that I will be reminded of the concept of the piece of work I composed in my head. In this way, I may be able to recall it, and write it down from the beginning to the end, without any gaps or hesitations.

Chronicles of a love left untold

You see her walking in front of your eyes, all wrapped up in a enchanting daze, with her head in the clouds, with her thoughts on anything but you; your head hurts from all this painful wondering whether she knows or not;whether she will learn or not; whether there is hope or you wiped it away.

Years pass and you are still bewildered by her mature appearence, as she finds a new job, and you remain there, static, stupified, baffled about how breath-taking a woman can be, still incapable of speaking a word to her, tell her what kind of sentimental war has started in your heart, how hard it is to keep your eyes and mind away from her, how it hurts not to be able to touch her hands and warm her.

You are both old, but the difference is that time affected you, while it left her beauty untouched. As if she is still the young girl walking in front of you and doing her tricks and casting her spells on your tormented soul. Your eyes crave her as much as anything in the world, but your mouth is paralyzed, still unable to speak the words of love you have hidden inside you for too long. And you silently watch her walk away, as the first touches of white appear on her hair.

And then she died. And you never realized how it feels being away from her. And you wish you told her earlier how magical it felt seeing her walk and talk. And how you wish you let her know that her beauty was the only beauty you could ever fall in love with. And the words you never spoke, the actions you never took blow your heart to smithereens.

At the end of the day

All those days, all those magnificent, or miserable, or exhausting days, revolving around people, people and thoughts and places, and rare moments can be spent in total loneliness; loneliness has become, among many other undermined human conditions, a luxury in busy cities hungry for life and lights.


All this delusion about independence; we are not truly free when we have to depend on others, when others contribute to our feelings, to our thoughts, to what we call personality, to what we call mood. How can we independent, when we seek love and care and acceptance? In this sense, it is not bad to be dependent, since this dependence derives from our vulnerable nature itsellf, from our need to be with others, to integrate in groups of people, to carry the pains of being a weak and miserable human being.


When dependence reaches manipulation, when dependence involves money, when dependence is nothing but a form of civilized slavery, this is when you have to keep your head high and break your chains, learn to think for yourself and not let false authorities impose a phoney truth to you.


At the end of the day, when we are alone, just we, ourselves and our mirrors, we cannot help but drown into our subconscious, into our deep, inner self and realize that we all need a loving person to carry us home, to make us feel human, to make the world seem less mean and cruel, to hold our hand in the darkness. 


At the end of the day, we are still seeking for emotional independence and fighting our nature, which made us who we are for a reason; to constantly lose ourselves and seek ourselves in this mass of contradictory, different, similar, unfamiliar people...

Unravelled

I miscarry a lust for life

a passion for the unknown

a will to experience and observe the most sublime and horrid of things

I miscarry another world

I cannot give birth to in this prison I was locked up in.

I miscarry a pain for the human

difficult to bear, hard to confess

the pain of a child born in poverty

the pain of a man working overnight

the pain of a woman blocked inside her routine.

I miscarry the most delicate of pains

I cannot give birth to because they sound so absurd.

I miscarry a ravishing artist

all outraged and covered in blood and feathers

that pours herself on a blank piece of paper

trying to translate complicated and alluring thoughts

into heartfelt and pointless words

I miscarry an infected sensivity

I cannot give birth to in a atrocious reality.

Walking on the wire

So tonight I decided to put some Yann Tiersen on. Or, to be more precise, I decided to listen to piano music in general. For me, this kind of music is more than pleasure to my ears. It's inspiration, it's feelings, it's memories, thoughts that even a simple scale of notes can carry. It's magic, how it happens. Listening to this kind of music and being all creative and..maybe..a bit depressed. Because writers and poets are primarily depressed people, too sick and tired of life and its games. But there's hope. Sometimes.


The track that I chose to listen to is called "Sur Le Fil". It's taken from the soundtrack of a very beautiful movie, "Amelie". For some people, Amelie is merely a romantic movie. For me, and maybe others, the movie doesn't aim to communicate a simple love story, but the appreciation of beautiful moments, the adventure that can exist in a rather routinary life (especially the life of a Western citizen), the happiness hidden in deceivingly unimportant things - which we sometimes fail to see, and tend to search for it in the wrong places. 


Sur le fil is "On the wire", in english. I did not know what it means, since I never learned French in my life, but I asked some YouTube people and they told me the exact translation in English. The depressing and melancholy melody along with its rather mysterious and feeling-evoking title made me think. 


There are moments in life when we feel like we're walking on a wire. A wire which can break and throw us to the ground, kill us or maybe save us,take us to other side, justify our choices, make us see things we never saw. Walking on a wire means that everything is fragile; if you make the correct choices, you will keep walking, if you make the wrong choices, you'll fall, and maybe you won't have the ability to come back and fix it all. 


There are moments in life when we feel like we can't go on. Should we keep walking on the wire, or let ourselves fall? Should we continue living a boring life, or change it all? Should we continue living in a bad relationship, or break up and accept the consequences of our actions? Should we study hard to enter the university, or do something else and disappoint our parents? 


Life is based on choices. When you're on the wire, you have to choose. Choose whether to walk hastily and fall or walk slowly and make it to other side, choose whether to stay in the middle of the wire or make it to the end of it, choose whether to abandon the wire and fall off or stay there and keep fighting until you reach the edge of it. It's all a matter of choice. You choose, you enjoy or suffer. Everything is fragile when you're up there, on your own, deciding over your life, without anyone guiding you. 


I am not an advice-giver, because I am rather frustrated and depressed person, but one thing I can guarantee you about is that our choices shouldn't be affected by third-party people. Only we know what is best for us and only we can decide. Do not let people intervene in your life and make you become something you've never wished for. Better regret things you have done rather things you haven't done. Fact.

Love Me.

Mick. <3

About Life

     If I were to write a letter to my grandchildren, what would I write? Possibly I'd be too ashamed of myself, 'cause I transferred to them a world that doesn't give a damn about them. From the moment we're born till the day we die, we're just a number to those people,that wear knots and spend their days in offices or in cosmopolitan celebrations. Or maybe, an annoying obstacle on their way to power and success. But that shouldn't bother them, or discourage them from walking on and on , however difficult this path may be.

      And when they feel that the laws they're fed with are unfair, they should speak their mind and never come to their knees and pray for Gods and saviours. Even if there is a God, he probably has no intention of aiding the poor creations of his wisdom, since he has deliberately given them the freedom to choose their own form of destruction and thus, destroy other people without getting a divine punishment. They should help themselves,and never ask for someone else to do all the hard work, because those people,that are up there, and look at all of us from above, and wear knots and phoney smiles, are completely dehumanized. Thing is,they rarely realize it and consequently, they consider themselves very worthy of appreciation and admiration. But the people who are down there can easily make out the beast smile drawn in their faces.

    I'd tell them not to judge me too hard for having transferred to them this kind of hideous world, because I was a very confused,baffled and unstable person that couldn't decide for herself, let alone form an opinion that includes the entire world in it. Or maybe, I'd tell them that I tried, but I was still knocked down and fallen off the stairs, whenever I tried to climb up the stairs and try for something more. Which can be equally true to the first statement, since I am still young and I do not know what I may do in the years to come. 

   I'd tell them not to let themselves be deceived by beautiful people and glamorous lives. Real happiness lies elsewhere. I ain't going to lie; there is no happiness without a considerable amount of money, because poverty bears misery. But you definitely don't need a big house to be able to call yourself happy. There are other things that matter more, like; helping people who are in urgent need of it, or falling in love, or meeting new people, or doing team work, or dreaming, or changing this world for the better,or at least trying to. And that, beauty itself is not something that can be preserved or put in boxes and perfectly ordered products, but something that combines both appearence and inner world. Let me explain, because I wouldn't like my own grandchildren to misunderstand my words. I mean that, appearence becomes beautiful with the help of the inner world, of the positiveness that one can give out to their environment. In my experience, I've seen people that cannot be considered pretty in an objective-superficial way, but were so pretty inside,that the appearence was even prettier than the appearence of a glamorous,hot person you'd probably see on the tv. And I've seen people that looked like super-hot-models that were so empty,so hollow,or so vicious inside,that they could not support their appearence. And I've seen people both pretty on the outside and on the inside. In this world of a million different people, we cannot be absolute about anything, and never fall in the trap to make predictions,since people are the most obscure beings ever existed. So i'd tell them not to choose to have a hollow person next to them, no matter how beautiful he or she may look on the outside, 'cause external beauty comes and goes, but real beauty deriving from the combination of the two stays forever.

     I'd tell them not to judge people too hard, because we all, me included, fall in this vicious trap and consider ourselves know-it-all-ers. Each one of us has their own problems,their weaknesses and their strong points, and it would be foolish of them to think that they know a person enough to know why he has decided to act in a specific way. We are such complicated beings and our actions can be linked to a million causes.So i'd tell them not to ever think that they know those simple people that sit next to them in the bus,or in a bench, or in a cafe, enough to judge their lives and actions.

    I'd tell them not to worry about people's opinions on them, because life is too short to be lived by the standards of other people;and that people will always form opinions on things they have little knowledge of, or things that they passionately envy and blame others for doing them. Be crazy;follow your heart and your passions;live every moment to its fullest because,when you get old, all you'll remember is those passionate moments and certainly not the opinions of other people...

LOVE.

I feel such a little kid sometimes - when I'm with you. 

 But I love you so much that it blows my senses away.... <3

The little prince and the fox

It was then that the fox appeared.

"Good morning," said the fox.

"Good morning," the little prince responded politely, although when he turned around he saw nothing.

"I am right here," the voice said, "under the apple tree." 

"Who are you?" asked the little prince, and added, "You are very pretty to look at"

"I am a fox," the fox said.

"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."

"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."

"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince.

But, after some thought, he added:

"What does that mean--'tame'?"

"You do not live here," said the fox. "What is it that you are looking for?"

"I am looking for men," said the little prince. "What does that mean--'tame'?"

"Men," said the fox. "They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?"

"No," said the little prince. "I am looking for friends. What does that mean--'tame'?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."

"'To establish ties'?"

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."

"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think that she has tamed me . . ."

"It is possible," said the fox. "On the Earth one sees all sorts of things."

"Oh, but this is not on the Earth!" said the little prince.

The fox seemed perplexed, and very curious.

"On another planet?"

"Yes."

"Are there hunters on that planet?"

"No."

"Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?"

"No."

"Nothing is perfect," sighed the fox.

But he came back to his idea.

"My life is very monotonous," the fox said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . ."

The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time. 

"Please--tame me!" he said.

"I want to, very much," the little prince replied. "But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand."

"One only understands the things that one tames," said the fox. "Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . ."

"What must I do, to tame you?" asked the little prince.

"You must be very patient," replied the fox. "First you will sit down at a little distance from me--like that--in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . ."

The next day the little prince came back.

"It would have been better to come back at the same hour," said the fox. "If, for example, you come at four o'clock in the afternoon, then at three o'clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o'clock, I shall already be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is to be ready to greet you . . . One must observe the proper rites . . ."

"What is a rite?" asked the little prince.

"Those also are actions too often neglected," said the fox. "They are what make one day different from other days, one hour from other hours. There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I can take a walk as far as the vineyards. But if the hunters danced at just any time, every day would be like every other day, and I should never have any vacation at all." 

So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . ."

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"Then it has done you no good at all!"

"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields." And then he added:

"Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret." 

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

And the roses were very much embarassed.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose. 

And he went back to meet the fox.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose--" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . ."

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember. 

source

 

Friendship

Life is like taking the bus on a regular day. We are sitting safe in our seat,but the person sitting next to us changes. It's like all those people that come and go, making our lives worth living and then arbitrarily abandoning us,or those people that never loved,never cared,just stood by our side for their personal benefits.But among all those people that constantly change,and new people take their place,there are some human beings that will get off the bus in the same stop as us. These are the people that will never,ever leave us,these are the people that will always be there,no matter how long the journey will be,no matter how much the ride will last,no matter how hard the circumstances will be. It doesn't matter.And these are briefly called "Friends".

If,for an instant,God forgot...

If, for an instant, God forgot that I am a puppet and gave me a piece of life, I possibly would not say everything I think,
but think everything I say.

I would value things not for what they are worth,
but for what they mean.

I would sleep less, dream more,
I understand that for every minute we close our eyes,
we lose sixty seconds of light.
I would go when others halt,
wake up when others sleep.
I would listen when others speak
and how would I enjoy a good chocolate ice cream!

If God gave me a piece of life,
I would dress simply,
Throw myself face up unto the sun,
Bearing not only my body but also my soul.
God, if I had a heart, I would write all of my hate on ice,
and wait for the sun to come up.
I would paint with a Van Gogh dream upon the stars a Benedetti poem and a Serrat song would be my serenade to the moon.
I would water the roses with my tears,
to feel the pain of their thorns, and the incarnate kiss of their petals...

God, if I only had a piece of life...
I would not let a single day pass without telling the people I love,
that I love them.
I would convince every woman and man that they are my favorites and I would live in love with love.

I would prove to men how wrong they are to think that they stop falling in love when they grow old,
Without knowing you grow old when you stop falling in love!
I would give wings to a child, but let him learn to fly on his own.
I would teach the elderly that death does not come with old age, but with forgetting.
I have learned so much from you, the people...

I have learned that everyone wants to live on the top of the mountain, without knowing that real happiness lies in the way you climb up.
I have learned that when a newborn grabs, with his little fist,
for the first time his father's finger, he has him caught forever.

I have learned that a man only has the right to look down on another man, when he is helping him rise.
There are so many things I have learned from you, but they're not going to do much good, for when you pack me in that suitcase, I will be unhappily dying.

Always say what you feel and what you think.
If I knew today would be the last time I was to see you sleep,
I would hold you tight and ask the lord to be the keeper of your soul.
If I knew this were the last time I would watch you walk out the door,
I would give you a hug, a kiss, and then call you back so I could give you more.
If I knew this was the last time I was going to hear your voice,
I would tape every one of your words so I could hear them over and over again indefinitely.
If I knew these were the last minutes I was going to see you,
I would say "I love you" and not assume, stupidly, that you already know.


There is always a tomorrow,
Life gives us another chance to do things right,
But, just in case I am wrong and today is all we have left,
I would like to say how much I love you and that I am never going to forget you.

Tomorrow is not assured for anyone, young or old.
Today may be the last day you see the people you love.
So don't wait any longer, do it today.
So if tomorrow never comes, you will surely regret the day you didn't take time for a smile, a hug, a kiss and that you were to busy to grant them one last wish.
Keep the people you love close to you,
Whisper in your ear how much you need them, love them and treat them well.
Take time to tell them "I'm sorry",
"Forgive me",
"Please",
"Thank you" and all the loving words you know.

No one will remember you for your secret thoughts.
Ask the lord for the strength and wisdom to express them. Show your friends how much you care for them. 

 the writer of the above is assumed to be Gabriel Garcia Marquez, however it is not 100% accurate.But its meaning is a great one no matter who wrote it.

Into the Erebus

And what is darkness?A mere absence of light.

Credit:silverstar170,DeviantArtist

All great and beautiful work has come of first gazing without shrinking into the darkness.~John Ruskin

   Credit:Suntanna,DeviantArtist

                                                                            

I got deep down there, in the darkness.I knew it was a mistake.I knew that,as an average human being, I was weak and so easily conquered by my own passions,emotions,memories...But I was so devoid of inspiration,of emotions,of life, that a plunge deep into my very own past would rejuvenate my hollow soul again,activate those nerves again...

Oh, how could I do this to myself! I saw all those familiar faces screaming at me,as if a music heard from far-off,forgotten for a while but always flashing back in my mind and inflicting such pain that only a heroin needle could cause,while it injected the lethal poison in the veins...

Emotions almost brought me to my knees,begging for the past to unchain my tormented soul,I almost shrank deep into the darkness like a child hidden in its mother's protective arms...

I broke down and cried, cried, cried till the heroin was pushed out of my veins, until the needle stopped hurting my skin...I knew it was wrong, I knew that one should not mess with the darkness,for darkness is such a destructive force... 

Nights...

The greatest of nights I spent with you. Walking around hand in hand, crossing roads, connecting these pieces of this urban paranoia together. Fulfilled and happy, with this warm rush of affection flowing through my veins and helping me touch the stars.Look! look how we forgot this misery that surrounds us. Being with you helped me partly erase all this misery that is concealed beneath those grey buildings. Everything is..vividly colored.Even this brightless sky, even this sea of mundane lines is vividly colored. How can love be so fulfilling,having such a pure impact on you?It is not only that feeling of flying that carries me away;it's this feeling you get that you can actually do everything, put a fire in the middle of a square,make someone happy,jump into the sea and swim to the most faraway shore, everything that was impossible becomes possible just by the touch of the great painter;Love. We are like a canvas;empty,hollow,white in the beginning, but slowly turning into a lively landscape,a paradise on earth,a slice of life,almost feeling as if we could be part of nature ourselves...just by the touch of love.
The greatest of nights I spent with you. Meaningless babbling, impulsive laughter, tender hugs, kisses full of rapture and magic,long walks,brand new experiences...Precious little moments that will never come back in the same form, but will change, always change, as the sky is never colored in the same way,every day....
I love you.

Urban landscapes...

Can imprisonment co-exist with beauty in a modern city?