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