throatless no more

throatless no more
along a shore
of the sea of you i tip toe
and under the tree of you
i duck low..i skip
from rock to rock, in fear
i decline the waterline lest i slip
for i drown in an inch of you
and i'm buried in a pinch of you
and all i have to do is think of you
and i’m tangled..lost
in the landscape of this fact that you
are never to be mine.

throatless no more
this tearful sea of me
is drained
my words lay flapping on your floor
like fish out of water.
i’m desert
without rain.

throatless no more
i spat in my hand*
and i swore
this dust, this dirt of me
i’ll plough
the seeds of this tree of me
i’ll sow with sweat
from my brow
and then..

i’ll run in the rain
i’ll sail wet
and deep
the salt on my face a new sea of me
i’ll ignore the pain
as i scale steep
the clefts of this rock of me
and then..

i'll dive to soar
the sky of the landscape of this fact that i
have got to survive.

Pain: A Prelude to Knock Kncok*

As his face grew visible from a distance, I clearly remember whatever it was that tugged at the top of my stomach and caused discomfort that would have sent me running...but for that wide smile it bore. A large, well built man. He had a pear-shaped head with fair reddish skin and close-cropped hair. His small flat eyes seemed to peer out of an extension of his forehead. His lips smiled, but the rest of his face had a cruelty about it that made my heart sink.

Hesitantly, I remained. He came and kneeled on the ground next to me as I played with my toys outside in the sand. "What is your name?" he asked and I answered without pausing or looking into his threatening eyes. "Can I also play?" I did not answer. His mere presence was unbearable. I became aware of the pounding in my heart and could feel it all around my body, my stomach became utter sickness and the silent tension gradually grew to a point that I exploded up from my crouch and raced towards the door.

The door! The door! I saw nothing but the door. It seemed that my arms and legs had melted. I stumbled and fell but still saw nothing but the door. I was back up, I don't know how, in a split second that seemed like a minute I found myself pushing and pulling with a thousand movements at the door handle and jamming myself into the house. The Key! Where is the key! My hands shook and things hit the floor as I groped for, found, and thrust the key a thousand times into the lock and turned it.

The clicking sound of safety released all the tension and I collapsed to the ground, prostrate and motionless. My loud and heavy breathing, my heart throbbing nausea all the way to my fingertips, the tears that ran across my temples and into my ears all slowly began to creep back into my consciousness as I lay on my back, regaining perception.

I caught with the corner of my eye his silhouette, fidgeting around the house, trying every door and every window. I heard the horrible sounds of his unsuccessful attempts to enter. But I did not move a muscle and sights and sounds slowly faded into a restless sleep of safety, right there behind the door.

*see 4 Dec 2008

A Gentle Reminder

Sometimes I wonder why I write about the same things over and over. It may be that I'm just stuck somewhere, or maybe it is just the way I look at the world; maybe it's just me. And maybe it's both!

Anyway, here it is, the description may be a little subjective, but it is to make a point.

Today we received a most interesting little visitor at our office. So out of place, he immediately captures your attention being the only 5 year-old in a setting of monotonous 20 to 40's, the conspicuous curls of his dark hair barely reaching the desktops around him. He walked behind an 'uncle' triple his size. He walked in straight stringent strides, his big brown eyes fixed in front of him, absolutely terrified of this new setting of these towering 'old people' and their piercing eyes which he anxiously avoided. He even blocked out communication, and when pressured to answer he looked aside and put up his hand with fingers outstretched to answer the question 'how old are you?'

Minutes passed, faces grew familiar and the threat of piercing eyes dissolved into smiles that softened his defenses to the point where he could make eye contact, and maybe answer a question. "Oh no, I broke the car!" was the first complete sentence. A sentence indeed; "I think it would be better if I leave, I am only disturbing you" is what he would have said had he known what he was actually saying. The fragility of his little soul so undisguised. Please handle with care.

Those who thought he was cute and overwhelmed him with their generosity soon discovered their mistake. By now, he was king of the Tall Ones. "Come bow before my greatness, place your sacrifices of candy and coloring pens at my feet and be gone." Shouts. Complaints and orders.

Soon it would be time to leave, he would not want to leave all these nice big people who gave him so much and expected nothing more than a smile in return. The parting could be so violent as to squeeze out a few tears. He would go home to mommy and tell her all about the big people and what they did and how he broke the car and got all those nice coloring pens. Then he would fall asleep after an overwhelming day, and in his dreams, he would swordfight pirates with cardboard rolls and bask in the warmth of the gentle feminine smiles that filled his day.

When our little visitor wandered into our world and so delightfully unraveled the layers of his transparent soul right before our eyes, I was paralyzed with shock at what I saw. I did not see a 5 year old stranger. What I saw was the onion of my own soul being peeled, layer by layer and waved around for all to see.

If we all were to appear our real emotional age, our little visitor would be the only one who is not out of place. He would just be the visitor who is going home in a couple of hours. But we would be like a kindergarten class out on an architectural field trip, all be too short for the desks and all that paper would be a haven for building castles and paper planes. And all those coloring pens!!

You would find me, looking all 5 years old and nerdy with glasses and fresh scabs on my elbows digging dirt out of the flowerpot in the corner, trying to find a bug to gross out a girl.

I'd be out there all alone, stringently staring at something, too terrified to move a foot forward until the repeated niceness of everyone creates some solid ground out of the mush I'm standing on. Then I might exchange a glance with someone, and maybe a smile, then maybe a word or two.

I'd be jealous of all the big tough guys because they are all bigger and tougher. And would love it if one of them endorsed me as his protégé, then I can be big and tough like him. I would gross out all the girls with bugs to disguise my utter vulnerability to that feminine gentleness of their warmth and pretend that I couldn't care less if they were all blown up by aliens.

But when I go home to my bed, I'd cross my arms behind my head, all 23 years of me, and stare at the ceiling and the thousand images in my head, all the little situations that molded my malleable soul like putty. I'd wonder if I were big enough like the big guys, will I one day drive a big car and boss some people around. I'd wonder how long I can pretend to resist that sweet feminine charm. I'd wonder if one day I'd be a good husband, or a good dad? Would I raise my kids to be 23 at 23? Or will I just be a kid raising another kid.

The next morning, I would wake up with a sigh and be off to another field trip.

~Dedicated to Adham, and all the spontaneity of his age.

Mirror

i didn't realize how annoying i sound until i heard someone who sounds just like me!
i need to shut up more...

Tears (Take 3)

He sits among them, he smiles at their jokes and nods in cordial response to their kindness. Some are enjoying exotic cocktails; others are dancing to the music; a pleasant atmosphere.

He gets the usual urge to be alone; he gets up and walks past them to an overlooking place behind a corner on the right-hand side of the terrace where the party was held. He leans his back against the wall. The sky is ready for the sun to set. He lets his back slide down along the wall until his buttocks touch the ground, his back straight against the wall.

He spreads out his arms and rests them by the elbows on his knees in front of him, his hands one holding the other. His jaw is shut and his teeth bite tightly against each other. All air is sucked out of his mouth, and all the sweetness of the drink replaced by that awful flavor of his own tongue mixed with saliva and traces of food. His eyes squint to protect against the horizontal sunlight, but also to contribute, with the bite, to absorbing some of the tension inside.

Hills, trees and houses slowly change color and shade as the sky plays its virtuoso masterpieces, and the melancholy of their melodies molds his emotions into a lump that sits in his throat. He remains in his stance for a while.

Footsteps slowly emerge in a steady sound that contrasts with the chaos of the dancers; over the music they gradually grow louder seeking him out until they make their halt just at the corner where he is sitting. He slowly turns his head from the marvels of the sky to the mysterious feet beside him, then gradually upwards and squints his eyes again, this time to protect against a deeply penetrating gaze.

Her face is serious, but with a gentleness and a faint compassionate smile that makes the lump in his throat throb once or twice. She walks around the corner and across to his other side, and crouches beside him imitating his position, all the while continuing to gaze into his vulnerable but defensive eyes. He can no longer bear her gaze and returns to observe the sky. She does also.

A few minutes pass as they, isolated from the crowd, sit and watch the sunset. In a quiet voice, choking on the lump in his throat and unable to fight against the tears in his eyes, two of which roll from the outer side of each eye and along his cheeks making lines that shine in the dimming light, he finally says “you know…if you come with me…I will go with you” He turns his head, and with a novel intensity, his gaze into her now tearful eyes. She takes a deep audible breath as she runs her right hand along his arm and into his right hand. Tightening his grip on hers, he helps her to her feet, not breaking the gaze.

Silhouetted against the sunless sky they return hand in hand from around the corner and back into the dancing…and dance the night away.

Excessively Idealistic

Suppose someone asked you to take a stroll all the way to the sun.

The sun is excessively far away, you'll probably never get there. But there's no way you could miss it. The sun is excessively hot, it'll burn your face and blind your eyes, and if you ever got there you would vaporize before you could touch it. But there's no way you could miss it.

The journey is excessively long, will cost you your entire life, and will end before you even travel 1% of the way. But at least you'll always know you're on the right track. The sun is the sun, and there's no way you could miss it.

Man from the Mountain

His descent was a memorable event in the lives of those who witnessed it. Silhouetted against twilight, a dark figure slowly made its way across the meadow below the mountain. Every head turned, every bent back straightened, all was halted, to gaze at the newcomer.

As distance diminished, the fading light revealed a man so shabby and uncouth it seemed no human eye had ever been laid on him. His hair a tree, complete with twigs and leaves that birds could nest there. His beard a bush of curly black, thick and coarse enough to scrub the deck of a ship. His clothes but filthy rags that belonged to none of the current fashion. And he stank! He reeked like an animal to whom soap is synonymous with semiotics. Yet despite the initial shock of his appearance, there appeared to be something in his deep dark eyes that held the gaze of on-lookers an extra second or two. A noble severity, mixed with a crude tenderness and a timid fear.

It had been 10 or 11 years since he wandered away; a child of merely 4 years of age, playing in the meadow in the shadow of the mountain. Unattended by those who should have attended, he curiously lifted every rock and looked behind every tree. Flowers and bugs, leaves and rocks all amazed him. He was irretrievably drawn into the pleasures of discovery, of exploration. and hopelessly lost. He discovered and discovered until the sun had made its way across the sky only to be slowly engulfed by the deep blue ocean. He found himself inside a cave, in the dark, lost on the mountain.

Time passed. He discovered the mountain by day, inhaling the fragrance of every flower, indulging in the juice of every fruit. He climbed every climbable tree and invaded every cleft in the rock. The dazzling colors of flowers and leaves were the pleasure of his eyes. His ears soaked-in the symphonies of the wind in the trees and the trickling of water along crystal streams. He indulged in every sunset and memorized the constellations. And by night he climbed the trees and crept into the clefts of his imagination. He discovered the world of his body, every nook explored and every secret made known. The solitude of his cave revealed deeper, darker pleasures. The mountain was exclusively his, and he the mountain's.

The boy grew into a man. And the mountain grew in him. He climbed its highest peaks and sat and stared at the horizon, with an absent look on his face. The sky became his mother and the ground he trod his father. And the distant sun his only lover. Deeper and deeper he went into the mountain, and the mountain into him. He was alone, with his thoughts, and the pleasures of the mountain.

They took him in, they shaved him up and bathed him. They groomed his hair and gave him a fashionable wardrobe. And as the commotion quieted down, the first to call out his long lost name was a woman. So breathtaking was she, surpassing all the pleasures of the mountain. He could see in her eyes what he later named fascination. He felt it too when he looked into hers. She was taken by his eyes and the absent look on his face that bid her join his mysterious journey to an unknown but exciting place. But when she tried, she found that there was no journey, and that she was the unknown and exciting place. To him, she was like the mountain. A tree to climb, a rock to look under. When he spoke, the crudeness and severity in his tone gradually shed all wonder away. He was no more than a boy, with a timid fear in his eyes that made her insecure. He was the mountain’s.

Time passed. And as he had once found himself in a cave on a mountain, he now somehow found himself on a chair in an office. He shaves, he bathes and furnishes his own wardrobe. He talks and writes and works and eats. He even owns a cell phone! But the absent look has never left his face. His 10 lone years on the mountain have made human contact difficult. He now realizes that with a force that shakes the depths of his being. The mere sight of human contact draws tears from the bottom of his soul like water from a well; slowly and gradually with a rope until finally, with enough strength it reaches the surface. And flows. But his water never flows, at least not in public. Instead, he wanders to the mountain and climbs its highest peak and sits there and stares at the horizon, and those around him can only see that absent look on his face.

He still finds it strange that men his age seek a car or a career and want to own a house and a home-theater. He is still convinced that all you need is a knife to carve stuff out of wood and a cave to sleep in. He still finds it strange that women his age spend so much time in front of reflective glass when in their eyes there is beauty that surpasses all the pleasures of the mountain. When they talk to him of what they had for dinner or what happened when someone did something, he honestly tries to conveniently respond but finds little, if anything, to say. For to him these things are alien, and the depths of his soul are all he has to talk about. It is all he had on the mountain. But he realizes that things are done differently in the meadow.

He loves to sit high on roof tops, and on benches overlooking places. He loves the sting of cold wind in his eyes. He loves, still, to inhale the fragrance of flowers and to marvel at tree leaves silhouetted against the sky. He even finds a cave to spend the night in sometimes. He likes to put his face into the air beating through a rolled down window of a speeding car. He could spend a day on his own lifting rocks and climbing trees talking to no one.

But this new discovery of human contact invades his every move and its exploration seems a foreign task. He occasionally finds himself fascinated by her or her. He can only smile when he sees her. And the other fills his thoughts when he waits for sleep to overtake. He has a special liking to those who are full of life and joy. What draws him more is that hidden darkness that resembles his. A timid fear that resonates with his. But he keeps his distance, he tries, without success, to keep away. Because he knows that all he can do is try to explore, and perhaps discover. As if it were another mountain. But they draw out his yearnings for what the mountain failed to provide, and with this drawing, parts of him he never knew are laid bare before his unguarded eyes. Like he was to the dwellers of the meadow at his descent.

He now wanders, between the meadow and the mountain. As his feet tread the meadow and try to find a place to stand, the mountain draws his mind and captivates his thoughts. He no longer knows whether he wants to belong to the mountain, or whether there will ever be a home for him in the meadow.

Apologies/Confessions

Forgive me dear friend for looking down on you…forgive me for putting you in a nice little packet, and branding you my own. Forgive that I see you merely as boxable..shelfable..discardable..a source of power or pleasure. Forgive that I give you only to take from you; forgive that I keep record. Forgive that I expect you to give back, and that I am angry when you don’t; as if it were my right. Forgive that when I do, I feel superior to you; condescending to men of lower state with my benevolence.
Forgive the words of wisdom that fill my mouth, and my ears when you speak, forgive that I do not hear. Forgive that I am convinced that I can help you, and save you from your misery, forgive that I pity you and call it sympathy.
Forgive my prying, my banging on your windows, as if you were mine, as if your life were mine to know and control, forgive the interest in my eyes that only wants to stamp a brand on a box, with you inside. And call it mine.


Forgive me dear friend for looking up to you…forgive me for putting you on a pedestal and bowing to my knees to worship you. Forgive my carving of your name in marble. As if you were some god. Forgive that I see you as better than me, when you are just like me. Forgive that I see every thing you do as an act of divine wisdom. Forgive that I don’t allow for your humanity; that I expect your perfect acceptance, and when all I get is human, I become angry.
Forgive that I hate your very essence although I adore you. Forgive the urge I get to ram you to the floor and spit on you, because you are better, higher, wiser, brighter. Forgive that i never treated you like you were you; not the idol that I made of you. I carved out your name in marble, so you’d be mine.


Forgive me dear friend for looking right through you…Forgive that you did not pass my test. Forgive that my eyes look right through your face, to idols or boxables. Forgive that my ears can’t hear your cries for help, the screams in your night.
Forgive that I choose to ignore whatever we have in common, even our mere humanity. Forgive me for being too busy carving and packaging that I didn’t catch that yearning glance in your eyes. And please forgive that I do not find you interesting enough to talk to you or make a little effort to know one more thing about you, you know why? Because it seems to me, unfortunately, that your test scores were too low, and I only accept A-students in my world.
It is you, dear friend, that I owe the biggest appolgy. And you and me, my friend, are one. A-students need neither idols nor packages to call their own, they own themselves.


And please forgive, all of you, that I write about how sorry I am, only to make you know that I really am better than you. Forgive that I know that tomorrow I will just be doing just the same.

by the window

I enter the house of your soul by the window.
up the creeping vines i climb
and bang on your glass.

You better get dressed soon because you might be naked
or wake up because you might be sleeping.

The right way would be to knock on your front door.
perhaps bring some flowers,
or make an appointment before.
and sit in your sitting room and chit-chat
about the weather and cars and politics.
and food
while sipping tea
then perhaps a stroll into the kitchen,
or to your balcony
to marvel at the marvelous view
then i would leave. with a smile and courteous bow.

but i have no words for sitting room talk
i have no ears for chit-chat
i have no manners.
my shoes are always muddy,
they will soil your beautiful carpets and your clean furniture.

so excuse me while i scramble up to your window
and bang on the glass of your soul.

--Dedicated to everyone i know.

I Marvel..

..at how one can wish another's demise, that one's own might be more bearable in one's eyes.

Spring

Spring sprouts green grass
and flowers yellow.

Out of desert, Spring brings
Beauty, but
Spurious, spring is
For Summer's Sun will surely follow his,

And with cruelty fade
Spring's masquerade.

...farewell

Two strangers in the desert;
you and i,
desolate and dry;
our only food;
the songs in our hearts,
our only water;
the tears in our eyes..

alas, our journey
though sweet as cinnamon,
blue as the sky,
deep as the ocean,
our good bye, was inevitable,
as unavoidable as night,
after a red and orange horizon.

Please find a shoulder to cry on
for it will be long,
and cold and tearful..
but try,
please try, not to be fearful;
"the sun will come up"
and with the sunrise,
your eyes will light up
with morning, your sorrow,
will soon sail away
tomorrow,
your heart will find day.

Three

Three..
sit on the highest floor
in the highest tower..
two thistles and a flower..
three..
on stairs where people flee
fires, and aspire
to touch tree tops, roof tops
and clouds that extinguish
yet another sun
that sets on their captivity..

three..
souls bound to silence,
their love, their hate and their violence,
unspoken is stored..and ignored.
Imprisoned in deceit,
their eyes never meet,
and when they do,
one retreats and hides,
as two cracks a joke
and three takes a smoke
and sings a song that goes along
with that thought that was caused
by the landing of a bird haphazardly on some tree..

three..
letters that none have read..
books whose pages are only covers,
friends..foes..lovers

three..
wells of uncried tears
and silent music that never left a throat
or reached an ear,
a mystery

three..
prisoners of freedom;
freedom from fear
of what freedom may bring

Tears

I found my feet taking me to a familiar place, over dirt and grass and 3-leaf clovers. A place that has stood witness to a life I seem to have to call my own. Lonesome steps I took, for though I am called by many, lonesome is my name.

There, old rough wood, some steel and some paint that have seen too many winters so cohesively insist to sit high on that retaining wall overlooking hills, valleys and a castle. And a sky, that has just bid its sun farewell in songs of deep red and serenades of orange.

Falling apart, I sat on that bench that seems to just be able to hold itself together through winters and springs and sunrises and sunsets.

They came with ease this time, the songs and serenades of farewell to a sun that made this winter warm. Without wishing this time, without trying, warm and saline they came, and with them and stream of emotions left unfelt for too long. Love, happiness, communion, acceptance, doubt, guilt, regret, peace, pain, sadness and sweetness…they all came and settled.

But they overstayed their welcome. Now they tend to spill with every thought of setting suns, with every hint of motherless children and childless mothers, lonely lovers, floating bodies with spirits sinking, bleeding, aching. Why oh why? Oh the pain and the yearning, does anyone hear these unspoken words? They sit there at the top of my stomach, all jumbled together and they settle.

Why does it have to be this way? Why?

Portraits (01)

Silhouetted against a whitish cloudy sky and the grey floor of his seventh floor balcony, a dark figure, clad in black sits on an office chair of similar color. Even his face is covered with a generous growth of black beard; as if it were his intention to completely stand out like that. But it wasn't.

In his hand, one of those long sandwich wraps called “saj” is halfway through its unfortunate fate while another waits in agony on his lap. He chews mechanically, with every sense of taste entirely absent from his consciousness. It is a tedious and uneventful process that he would gladly resign but for his diminishing figure and his need to survive. As his teeth grind bread, chicken and onion into tasteless paste, something strikes him as familiar. He sighs as he realizes that his days these days are just as mechanical, tedious and uneventful as his lunch.

Those who know him can recognize him from afar because of the way he walks. He tends to walk only on his toes, like one walking barefoot on a cold floor, his heels never touch the ground. He gets up from his chair and takes two of those apprehensive steps and leans on the steel handrail that has long stood between balcony-goers and their thoughts of suicide. His eyes restlessly roam the distorted skyline of a city that he calls his own. He longingly recognizes every street and café where his feet have trodden and still tread in their most unusual manner. But his thoughts wander to a warmer place where the lazy ocean hugs the shore and tickles their feet as they stroll together on the sand. He and she, together under the stars. Icy, eye-watering wind jolts his mind back to the seventh floor where the dreams that seemed so real are just out of reach.

His lonely lunch hour is over now; he drags the swivel chair back into its natural atmosphere of desks and computers and dreams dissolve into monotonous keyboard taps and mouse-clicks. Perhaps enough taps and clicks can one day bring his dreams of Saabs, sweet-smelling summer nights under the stars and beach-strolls on soft sand a little closer. But they seem just out of reach.

Entanglement

I am awake around 17 of the 24 hours. I spend 10 hours of the 17 at work, and i need about 2 more hours to get there and back plus getting ready and un-ready. I spend most of the 10 hours sitting in a chair inside a circle of less than 2sqm. I occasionally get up and walk around a distance of some 40 meters, but always within the same 200some sqm. I've done this 5 days a week for the past year.


This is not about numbers if that's what it's beginning to look like. It is about entanglement. At work, all our computers are linked together in a network. But that is not all, it seems to me that each person is linked to all of the others with a certain network as well. Like water that has travelled the same path so many times and turned it into a channel that now imprisons it; so are the words and gestures and connotations. And think on this one a while because this is what i'm trying to say here.


This all takes place in a very conrolled environtment of a constant temperature that is warm enough that it feels like you are inside a womb. And the air is never changed that by the end of the day the same air molecules you inhale have been inside everyone else's body. The light is also always constant, apart from when you happen to look outside of a window to catch a glimpse of the everchanging sky.


The first step i take out into the crisp cold my old friends "weather" and " open space" slap me in the face. And i wake up. The cold stings whichever part of my body is protruding. And open space diminshes the size of my thoughts and desires and attitudes to insignificance. Everything feels real and fresh again. This image would be perfect if i lived somewhere on an isolated hill outside the city to which i travelled through forests by bike. Then real stinging would take place. But unfortunately enough i walk some 1km through car fumes to the nearest bus stop.


But whatever. The world is bigger than the 200 some sqm. I wish i could take someone from work with me out to the cold. I wonder if the water would change its course. Or perhaps all i have to do is open a window and let the cold in.

Contradiction

      It is after midnight. The wind and the rain are beating against the solid walls of this room. It is cold and stormy out there. But in here, it is warm and quiet. I sit alone on the carpet. I silently sip my tea as i write words that i can hardly see in the red glow of the electric heater; my only light. To the unsuspicious observer, i am the model of wise serenity. Strong and silent. Peaceful and understanding. The unsuspicious observer does not know that what he sees is merely the solid wall of this room against which winds and rains beat mercilessly from within. Out here it is warm and cosy in the red glow of the electric heater. But in there. In there it is a raging storm.

Tears

I sat on the concrete steps leading down to the water; 4 steps down beyond the fence that frustrates fickle attempters. But even 4 steps down, the warm saltiness was still 4 meters away. The sea was Dead. And it was dying; the horizontal line of the water no longer passed through my perch.

Even beyond the fence, my attempt was still classified as fickle, there was a rough descent to the edge of the water that i was not willing to take. "It is too dark now" was my excuse "perhaps if it were still daytime i would". There alone, under the serenity of a starry sky, polluted by the loudness of misdirected light from hauty hotels, I wished i could cry.

The warm saltiness of tears has its way of washing away guilt and releasing a tank of emotions unfelt, that has unbearably exceeded its capacity. Like a hot shower after an hour of sports. But there was no warmth or salinity that night. At least not yet.

I woke up in tears. In my dream i had caught a murderer. I had to fight with him and overpower him, and drag him across the city to the nearest stronghold of justice. But as our journey progressed, and the first lights of the morning were beginning to break through, my strength, and my conviction of his utter uselessness to humanity, were waning. Through our journey my hate for him had started to dissipate, i could feel his anguish and participate in his conflicts. I had grown to love him. I was waking up. I had to deliver him to justice! But i couldn't, i just couldn't! But i just had to! I clenched the back of his worn yellow t-shirt inside of my fists and pushed my head in between, against his back. And i cried. Warm, salty water gently found its way down the valleys of my face and flowed into the dying sea that is me.

As i write this, strong winds are filling what was some 12 hours ago a clear sky with thick layers of dark forbidding clouds. Already the cold and pure water from the sky can be seen, reflecting off green leaves and black asphalt. Soon, it will find its way down the crevices and through the canyons. And into the sea.

Isolation

5 people;
3 sitting, around a table
2 standing,
one wandering.

5 people;
3 Chatting, talking, laughing, eating,
2 Loving, feeling, hating, meeting.
one quietly screaming,
squealing

5 people;
I am among them.
Yet not.
I secretly slip,
away from their unintelligible plot of communication,
yet not.
I speak,
and my participation convinces them
that I haven't left my spot.

My hands in my pockets,
I step out,
of my impenetrable shell,
I stroll about.
I laugh, I cry, I yell, i shout.
But all they see is my shell;
my impenetrable shell.
“All is well
with him" they think.

They can't really see,
me,
as I stand too close to their faces,
i tap their shoulders,
invade their spaces,
But they can’t see
me.

What they send,
I don’t receive,
or perceive
what they say;
their song. I do not hear,
the music they play.

But that’s okay,
and all is well;
I’m far away, by now,
outside somewhere, somehow.
And all they’ll find,
though they can’t tell,
is my impenetrable shell.

Mate or Mother?

She stood behind me as i looked at trouble coming up ahead
"don't worry about it" she softly whispered
I felt bigger and stronger.
Is she my mother or my mate? I do not know.

She held my head in her arms,
she ran her fingers through my hair,
and from their tips seeped peace and warmth i never knew
right through my skin and settled.
is she my mother, or my mate? i really do not know.

She has a heartbeat just like mine, and breath..
more frequent when i'm with her, yet
it seems to me her steps are firmer, wider
than my crawl so feeble, fickle.
is she my mother or my mate? i cannot tell.

monochromatic is my world she brings some color to it
she's music in the silent night but wait, doesn't that sound familiar?
Is she my mother or my mate? I'm lost here.

Naivety? perhaps. I don;t know why
i think she's both smart and wise,
the world seems more consistent
when i see it through her eyes.
Is she my mother or my mate? :S

although at 23 i stand, relatively big and tall
i'm quite convinced i don't exceed 5 years of age at all!!
so sorry love, i've nothing to offer
than some messed up poetry
perhaps an occasional card or flower
but more than that you'll find elsewhere
i hope
bye bye for now...it s my bedtime

4 Decisions

The scorching desert wind blows heaps of orange-red sand up the sides of rock and sandstone mountains. With time, large amounts of it accumulate into a dune leaning against the face of the rock, like a waterfall whose water suddenly turned into sand and could no longer flow away but just accumulated on top of itself.

4 meters above, against a very blue sky stand 4 human figures, silhouetted in the blinding sun. The sand calls them down. It lays a hold on their minds, they must jump. The 4 contemplate.

One of them is wise and hesitant but . He calculates the probability of permanent paralysis and finds the numbers too overwhelming. He dangles his legs off the edge of the rock and decides to observe the fates of others.

The other, a girl, is wise also, but only in retrospect. Before she could even begin to see her self begin to think, she missed seeing her legs running right off the edge and plunging down into the sand. The pleasure that comes from fear being completely neutralized by the softness of the sand was overwhelming. She climbed back up to do it again.

The third, the most laid-back person you could ever meet. Looks over the edge, finds that permanent paralysis is far-fetched. Fear grips him. He grips it back and moves it to the side, he turns off his mind and lets his muscles do the rest. He lands perfectly on the sand. His mind kicks back in and he laughs in its face, and they have a party.

I am the fourth. I walk to the edge. Seeing the results of the previous endeavors, my mind is at ease. However, the 4 meter drop looks quite scary. I weigh my options to find that they are surprisingly of the same weight. The grip of fear is stronger than mine. I hesitate. The observer, lounging at my right, urges me to go. I wriggle out of fear's grip. My stomach churns. I turn off my mind, and i jump.

no thanks i don't smoke

he sat on his bed.
cookie in hand
a small trash can near his right foot
almost nothing was going on in his head,
except the anticipation of what was about to tantalize his taste buds.
he salivated as he raised his hand to his mouth and took a bite.
his entire existence could now be summed up
in the reaction between his tongue and the bite of cookie now melting upon it.
beautiful. he tapped his cookie over the trash can
so extra crumbs would not mess up his carpet.

...another bite
then perhaps later in the day
another cookie

i think i'll get married

The hall was big but the sound of their voices filled it thickly; like pudding. He had to push his way through. They all knew eachother. He knew only himself. He didn't feel safe enough to go up to someone and talk to them. I think i'll get married he thought. If i had a wife, i could talk with her. And we could make pudding just like them.

The room was quite small. and cosy. He sat in it, by himself. flipping through TV channels. He wasn't cosy inside. I think i'll get married he thought. If i had a wife, we could have a cosy little evening together.

He thought himself to be quite wise. 'But i don't like to impose my ideas on other people. it is an implicit form of control.' He kept from becoming a great teacher. I think i'll get married he thought. If i had a wife, we could share ideas and think deep thoughts.

He had many dreams and aspirations, and high standards that he lived his life to. But he was very busy and could not achieve everything. I think i'll get married he thought. if i had a wife we could have kids. and they're gonna be geniuses.

He watched a movie with some love scenes in it. 'Hmm, that seems like a very nice thing to do'. I think i'll get married he thought. If i had a wife, we could have sex and wake up in each other's arms.

He didn't like his mother very much. She reminded him of his own weaknesses. 'i want to move out of here.' I think i'll get married he thought. If i had a wife, she would be brave and crazy and she could love me, unlike my mother.

I like to play guitar. but i don't like playing in front of people. It is too showy and vain. i think i'll get married. if i had a wife, i would play to her and she would admire me. i think i'll get married he thought.

My life seems quite gray. i would like some color in it.