Friday, December 2, 2016

Gone days

There are days that  I can't help but run back to my childhood. Right back to the start  when life seemed to be so natural, a process so easy  like the breath is to the lung. I don't know how to explain why the past seems to be so attractive. Why all these days that never happened seem to be the only chances you've ever had? It almost feels like you had a choice between  jumping on your train or tying yourself to the tracks, and you chose the second. That's how the past looks if you step back and see the bigger picture. It's a shape full of edges that seem to pierce you whenever you try to touch it. 
   What I can recall now from my past it's this little girl with all this messy hair that never seemed to be in place, who used to overwater her flowers because she couldn't stop giving. She would drawn the plant and then cry for its loss, yet she would repeat exactly the same pattern because she couldn't draw the lines. It's the same little girl that she was afraid both of the darkness and the light, for both of them nurtured a danger in their core. She was afraid of a paradox that she was so often dwelling between its poles. She was afraid of the unknown and at the same time of the notion of what lies beneath. And I love her for that, because it was so human. For the humans only a certain amount of consiousness is needed, otherwise their hearts would turn to stone and that burdain would never be able to carry in their chest.
    In order to stop these fears from getting shape in her mind she used to listen to fairytales everynight before she goes to sleep. Two or three stories were enough to distract her brain and lead it to new directions. In a world so private as her own she could use all the colors she was inside, colors that are not invented yet. And in this very moment her optimism wore boots and it was loud enough to make her brave. 
  It's quite funny how this kid is moving uncomfortably inside my body now, a body of a woman. I seem to fall from elegance with a dull thud way too often because of it. But my body feels different than before and it's only natural for me, my real inner me, to adapt its features. If it wasn't for all those nights that I left the tv on to make me feel less lonely when I was about to sleep, I wouldn't have believed that this girl survives after all.
   I feel like I should open a branch in here and tell you that I never expected that silence is something you could actually hear. I found my way in covering its screams with fairytales and tv, with every other human voice that would make me feel less empty. And here lies the second paradox; how does emptiness feel so heave ? 
    Now if you ask me why I feel like this I won't be able to answer. I guess it's because I grew up. I let myself grow up and burry my child behind my eyes. A step closer and a carefull look would give it away. I willingly swallowed my heart that used  to be my torch and caged it behind my ribs. I thought that was the right way, to give to my rationality full control. I casted away all the possibilities of magic and therefore I couldn't find it anywhere. 
   First I  got hurt by the whole process of breaking my dreams to pieces just because they were impossible, impulsive and irrational. Then I felt terribly sorry of what I have done. I guess that's the moment when you realise you are empty, when you have abandoned your own self for the shake of the others, of what they would call or think it's rational and right. When you blindly put them first because you are too scared to stand alone, but they never do the same and they never choose you. 
   That's what I have to realize, that no matter what I have to minimize the distance between my heart and my brain. I have to forgive myself and let it be real without the fear of rejection. I have to draw my lines so I can never let anyone define me wrong again. 
I need to reconcile with my heart and let the others just be. I and only I should be the captain of my soul. I have to accept my mistakes, all that I have made and the ones that are yet to come. I have to accept them with my hands wide open, as a chance of climbing higher. 
   I need to love me again instead of clinging to the idea that I am the reflection of all those who couldn't love me. I need to find my way instead of following the ones I claim I love. Now which direction I should take, it doesn't really matter since I have no idea of where to go. I just have to keep walking because if there's any truth you can sum up about life is that it goes on. It is always going on. 



Monday, November 28, 2016

I am not a graceful person

I am not a graceful person.
I am not a Friday evening or a Saturday night. 
I am a Tuesday 2am. 
I am not a song of beauty or a lullaby. 
I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks. 
And my body is not the place one can call "home", 
for I am a broken window during February.

My bones crack on a nightly basis.  
I fall from elegance with a dull thud, 
and I apologize for my awkward sadness. 
I sometimes believe that I don't belong here, 
that I don't belong around people. 
Instead I feeli like I belong to all those leap days that didn't happen. 

I am caged in my loneliness,
while my heart craves for human interaction
beforemy mind slips to the abyss of insanity. 
Yet I never give its key 
cause misery is easy, misery is comfortable. 

And hearts are wild creatures.
Creatures of longings and bitter sorrows.
Creatures of passions and madness.
That's why our ribs are cages.
That's why my ribs are cages.

I am not a graceful person. 
I am not a red rose blooming in your garden.
I am a daisy in an open field. 
I am not a work of art that you admire. 
I am stains of ink  on a blank paper that almost say something. 

I am not a positive person. 
My dark thoughts wear boots 
and walk through my brain
with heavy steps. 
And my love is not like a flame to warm you
 in the first November's rains.
It's more like an iceberg 
threatening to wreck your soul if it melts away. 

Yet I still hope that spring will come for me too.
I still dream that  all the trails of the winter can finally leave my bruised body,
I am a paradox.
A confusion
A headache.

The way the light and the darkness mix under my skin,
have become a storm.  
You don't see the lighting,
but you hear the echoes. 

Friday, November 18, 2016

A letter to the one I've loved

"8 November 19...

Dear Stranger,

I am writing you for not a specific reason. In fact, regarding to these matters there's hardly ever a reason. It's quite funny that we make better strangers than anything else in this world. I am not even sure if you remember me; it's been four years of silence after all. However, I am still having from times to times ghosts, dancing behind my eyelashes. Their figures look so familiar, but I can't identify them. Could it be us? I really don't have an answer for that since our clock has already striked midnight.

 You know after you were gone I kept on looking back, right back to the start, wondering what it was that made you change. Well I tried to get my answers, but at the same time I had to draw  the line. And believe me it took me a while to come to terms with myself for still loving you despite of knowing who you are. You see this feeling is so persistent just like a pest; an annoying insect that lives in my chest and eats me from inside out.

 But after all I've been through, I made it out alive. I saw that we were never meant to be and that even if I love you, I certainly do not like you anymore. I might lose  my temper sometimes and let your memory affect me, but you will never find your way back to me. I will never hold this door, that you closed, for you to walk into my life again. You made me stronger, wiser and the tragedy that you gave nursed my art. Do not ever think I am an unfinished book without you, because I am the writer of my story, while you were a chapter.

 Yet everytime someone mentions your name my  head turns towards to them. It's like everytime I hear it I think of all that we could have had and all that could have happened but didn't.

With all the love you no longer wanted,

A Stranger  "

That letter is nothing more than fiction. I got inspired by a book I was reading and so this letter came up.

Friday, November 11, 2016

To someone I used to know

"You think you've seen her naked 
because she took her clothes off ? 
Tell me her dreams.
Tell me what breaks her heart. 
What is she passionate about and what makes her cry ? 
Tell me about her childhood.
Better yet, tell me one story about her that you are not in.
You've seen her skin , 
and you've touched her body;
but you still know as much about her as a book you once found, 
but never got around to open it."

Dominic Matthew Jackson 

When we met
I realized why storms were named after people;
because you were one.
I could hear the thunder roaring in your chest with every breath you took.
Believe me , I was prepared for a mess. 
A beautiful mess, though, 
that would reseamble rain  
 that soothes the ground when it comes after days of drought. 
or that would reseamble madness.

 Because I could see your face in every painting , behind each color and shade;
 I could hear the gravels in your voice  in every song there was on the radio.
And in every book I caught myself wrapping the meaning of the words 
around your thought. 
Because I believed  you were art.
My personal kind of poetry. 
Oh, What had you done with my sanity ! 

But there was  nothing poetic about the way you took my heart 
shook it,
unraveled it,
and tossed it; 
like there wasn't anything interesting enough for you in it.
And you weren't a song; 
but you were the sound of a heart-breaking or 
the sound of nails scraching on a chalkboard. 
You weren't just a storm, 
but a disaster
meant to discolor me. 
And I was so blind to see that you used 
"I love you" 
as an excuse 
for keep  breaking my heart.

And in the end , 
all I was left of you 
is blisters on my feet
from dancing with your ghost.
Because you were merely there for  me.

I'm finally letting all this go.
I let go of your idea. 
I swallow it and let it burn
inside me.
Until I cough its  ashes.
Until you become a story 
that doesn't make me cry anymore. 
Until I finally find the strength to 
say "goodbye"
to someone who left me 

➼This poem is devoted to someone who I loved but left everything of me untouched.And if by untouched you think just of the body, then you too don't know anything about love. 

Thursday, November 10, 2016

It's not about you

"Darling we are silhouettes,
scientists state our bones are from the stars; 
Scientists say our bodies are from the ocean.
How is it that we're oh-so ddifferent, 
while we all seem oh-so the same ? 

You and me,
we're train wrecks waiting to happen;
but darling, 
train wrecks always make the front page.

You and I 
we're the world's lab rats.
They want us to affect the world;
they want us to use their techniques;
they want us to make the all right.

we are invisible.
Invisible to the sun.
Invisible to the universe.
Too bad we're evrything to this world,
we could have got away with a lot.

Still,we're all the same
just with different thoughts;
different styles;
different people. 

Still we are exactly alike.
We are humans.
We are science.
We are arts.
We are everything and nothing. 
We are empty.

Darling, tell me: 
How is it together,we're something 
and alone we're nothing ? "

I came across this poem online and I must admit my heart moved a bit from its place. The arrangement of the words, the words themselves,the meaning on these words ,the message that shines above them. These little details won a place for this poem in my personal collection and I am glad to start this blog with this sincere and  almost silent voice.      Its naive composition has to say something about ourselves, about our own human naivety to centralize ourselves,take them too seriously and as a consequence isolate them. This is  a poem against selfishness, against isolation.It's a sincere  attempt to fight against a world,which has the tendency to fall appart,or seems like it. In the end we all have to remember that we are the alchemists of our own sadness, of our own misery and distraction and in it's place we can create anything else.  Maybe all we have to do when our sky turns to grey  is accept the fact and stand still for a while. Take a deep breath to fill our lungs with all the possibilities around us , to close our eyes so that we can see the essence that : " It's not about you!"  The only sun we have and give its orbit to our solar system is going to crash, the galaxy we are in is goign to collide with another and we think that ourselves is the center of it. Like guilt is meant to be crashed on our spines, because of all the things we have done wrong or the imperfections we are crattered by. But it is not your fault and it is ok if you can't do it alone. It is ok to ask for help, to say no, to be different. As long as you tried to paint the world with the crayons of your own imagination, as long as you didn't give up on trying - even if this doesn't work, it is not your fault. And just because you are not perfect doesn't mean you are not beautiful. Because everything honest is beauty. Once you accept that, you can accept yourself as a complete composition and therefore move on in accepting others. That's how love is made.