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...