Promises made and kept

We promised each other we'll see the world together.

And here we were, standing, at the end of it, having seen everything and nothing at all.

It was cold and dark.
The time made us fade away like distant stars in the sky.
But we were still holding each other's hand.

Together until the very end. 

Morgen

At some point, we should pick a date and decide it will be "The International Day of the Shithead".
It will be more popular than Christmas.

You on the run

It's not yourself you're running from.
It's your inability of dealing with your shit and pulling yourself together which makes you run like a sprinter.
But, darling, did you forget that life is a marathon?

Meta-universe

In every possible universe, we (would) have met each other and fell in love.

Yours (n)ever,
A–

Glue for the soul

You thought you broke me but you forgot I was already damaged.
And then you bought this glue for the soul and tried to fix me.
But you cannot glue back together the soul. But you tried anyway.
And when you failed, you understood that you weren't meant to be my soul repairer.
And one morning you decided that you've had enough so you decided to leave me.
The days passed, and I didn't hear from you.
I remained broken and my pieces were scattered.
Random people took a broken piece of me and kept it for themselves.
Not thinking that one day you might try to glue me back together again.
And when you came back for me, all that remained was the imprint of my broken soul on a dusty table.

(in)significance

In this vast universe that everyone think they are special, you need to understand that you are insignificant.
Until the moment that you see yourself through the eyes of the ones who love you.
Then, you become their significant other.

The black hole

We kept dreaming about death and in the end we became death.
Why couldn't have we dreamt about life instead?

Defeated

The rain kept coming down from the black sky and all the lies were washed away.

And what was left was the bare truth. A truth that neither of us was ready to face. 

A truth that killed everything that we ever believed in, hoped for and hide from.

We were done. And that was the moment to admit it.

We were dead inside and there was no salvation.

So we decided to return to our graves, where we belonged in the first place.

We buried ourselves fifteen feet underground.

And the outside met the inside. 

And we weren't hurting anymore.

Death had won the battle.

We were defeated.

The killing moon

-What do you do when you feel like the world is spinning a bit too fast for you to handle? 

-This is what I do. Because I need to believe that tomorrow will be a better day.

No diggity

I hope one day you'll wake up and realise that you are a worthy person and you deserve to be loved, feel safe and forget about your insecurities.
I hope one day you'll believe me when I say that I don't care whether there are a thousand other people to care about and probably are better than you.
And I hope one day you'll understand that you make me a better person.

The lesser person

"I can deal with it", she said. The room was covered with darkness and he couldn't have possibly seen the disappointment in her face. It wasn't the rejection that was scratching her mind and making her to keep rolling around the bed that night. It was the fact that she never had the chance to actually choose for herself whether she wanted "this". And now, after 5 years almost, it was the very first time that for "this" someone was turning her down. Or so it felt. "This is why I am telling you that you can find a thousand people better than me", he said. She didn't reply. What could anyone reply to this? She wanted to tell him that there will always be an uncountable number of constellations in the sky, but Orion was her favourite. Would he understand? Nobody knows.
The morning after, he prepared for her coffee, as he used to do, with his fucked up from orzo coffee moka.
And the world kept spinning.
And she wasn't a lesser person.

The golden hour.

There is a golden hour throughout the short life of the day. 

Within this hour, the most magnificent things take place. 

Within this hour, nothing goes wrong.

Within this hour, your hands meet mine.

And we breathe. 

And we laugh. 

And we dream.

Within this hour, there is no need for reassurance.

Within this hour, I love you. 

And you love me back.

My something was stolen.

Trying to steal something that is not yours does not make you better, clever or braver.

It reveals your fear of accepting the fact that it wasn't yours in the first place.

So, please, give it back and stop trying.

You can always get your own something.

Basta.

Behind each person we see, there is always another person hidden, blurred, like the reflection of the fireworks on water.
Usually, the hidden person is one's true self.
And it's the ugliest.
Basta puttana.

The limits of control.

There are people who love but not be loved. People who consume and sacrifice themselves to the routine they chose to live in, people who pass by you when you are too busy talking on your phone.

People; the species which is placed on the top of the food chain and potentially threatens all the others. People, everywhere.

Neurons connected to each other, forming a city of neon that extends towards the infinite.
People; mammal beings with a soul, knowledge, intelligence, psychological gaps, pious hopes and monsters that are sleeping within them.

There are people who leave, who stay, who give up.
People that we miss, that we hate, that they die or died.

An anthropocentric world for an egocentric mankind.

Unfinished things

After some time of rolling around the bed, she managed to pull herself out of it.
She remembered all the wrong and maybe some right reasons that kept her up in the night and she decided that she needed coffee more than her thoughts.
She opened a new pack of freshly grounded filtered coffee- its smell was always reassuring that better days will eventually come- and prepared an excess of it in the tiny coffee machine which was placed next to the window with the view to the always-these-days greyish sky.
She looked at the coffee that was poured slowly to the glass pot with some anxiety. Like the drops were the countdown of an hourglass that was almost done. As if drop after drop the feeling of discomfort was becoming more and more acute.
She got distracted by the pouring rain that was striking the roof of the house. It sounded like a symphony written in a harmonic minor key; its sound was melancholic like the dark sky at a stormy weather but there was hope for a clear sky after a while.
She remembered the blue of the sea that turns black in the winter during the gloomy days and tried to find some comfort thinking that it was just another Sunday. And Sundays were always depressing, even though she was born on a Sunday of the most unstable month of the year, the winter-spring as she called it; March.
She moved to the sofa, covered herself with a blanket made of wool and sipped the warm coffee.
Her thoughts came back. she evoked the memories of giving up so many things that could have potentially made her happier than she was now, the music that she used to play, the photography classes, the abstract art.
Creativity was what was missing from her life and her life had become a flat line on an electrocardiographic monitor. And she was long gone to even try to fix it. It was the feeling of emptiness that she couldn't cope with. This feeling, as she had analysed it before, was the only feeling that she couldn't understand. It was the only feeling that did not make sense. Emptiness. What kind of feeling is this? She wasn't frustrated, agitated, depressed. She was just empty. How does one fix this? How can one fill the emptiness without being creative? She knew well that this was the most difficult part; to find these answers. to convince herself that she was able to escape from this inertia. But how?
She remembered that as a child, she always had this feeling of wanting too many things to be done in a second but she wasn't able to deal with the fact that nothing came easy in life. She never understood why everything had to be done step by step and why people were always telling her to slow down when they were the ones running away so fast. There was a controversy that was kind of ironic. People reassuring her that she had the potential of being whatever she wanted but at the same time those people were abandoned her at the very crucial decision-making time.
Then she remembered all the things that she left unfinished. Her novel, her half-written short stories that the publisher told her to put them together and publish them, the painting left at the attic of her house, the undeveloped films. Everything was unfinished but she felt like she was done with all of these. She felt like this was the purpose of her life, to leave everything unfinished for someone else to finish them. Like her life wasn't hers but someone else's.
This is how inertia felt like.
As she was thinking everything and nothing altogether, she realised that the rain has stopped.
And along with the rain, her discomfort was more at ease and her anxiety was wearing off.
She got up, washed her face, got dressed and got the fuck out of there.

Skip Divided

Closed culture systems of ideas, hopes and behaviors.

Fields of thoughts.

Equilibriums of memories.

Composted minds.

Rechargeable feelings.

Degradation of life. 

Slightly torn.

Nearly damaged.

It's time to start over again.

The fundamentals of being (rejected).

Rejection is like a potential grey sky on a summer day when you have your day off and you want to go to the sea.

You don't expect it to happen, but it does and not so rarely.

After years of acceptance of what's wrong with you and after making amends with your inner self and manage to balance somehow your insecurities– and it is that very moment that the so-called karma will hit you remorseless – a person will appear in your life that will make you remember all the wrong and maybe some right reasons, which made you feel so unbearably depressed.

I will call this person "the mente", or in simple English "the mind".

It will be a moment in which you'd wish that you were just one more mediocre common asshole, simply because when words like "brave", "first one", "honest" are coming out of the mente's mouth, who after quite a while made your heart beat a bit louder, they will make your state of mind so unstable that you won't actually know whether you should kill yourself or just smile and say thank you. In other words, you're lost my friend. Lost inside the mente's obscure comprehension of things.

Now, would you like to reconsider? Maybe in the end it wasn't a big deal – both actually start falling for the mente but also what the mente said. On the other hand, maybe it is a very big deal and you are frankly lost in between the lines, since people tend to be so ridiculously complicated. Or maybe you are crazy! Whatever makes you sleep at night, I guess, is what you would like to take as a de facto. 

Perhaps you would like to open the conversation again, and try to go deeper into the mente's head. But do you really wanna do this? "How far down does the rabbit hole go". This is where the scary shit start hitting the fan. Because nonetheless, all of us, including the mente, are so mentally fucked up, that when you reach half-way, you'd wish not to have even started diving in the cave of doom and darkness.

Perhaps you would like to be the cool one and thus you would never want to open any kind of related conversation again, but at the same time you will be dying a little because you won't be able to dechiper the signals. And consequently you will become gradually crazy.

So, what's the golden number to this differential equation that most of the brightly rational people will call "insubstantial bullshit"? How would you solve this jigsaw, which keeps you up at night and eats your mind and tears your heart and hurt your soul and destroys your carefully polished camouflage of well-being?

First things first, you should admit to yourself that you are a fuck-up. This is the mile stone of existence. You were, are and will always be a fuck-up and you should never let anyone convince you that you worth a dime or that you're special for some irrational reason. You are not special. You are a being. A mammal. Your purpose since the day you were conceived is to be born, live or survive and die. You are not an original. You are a shitty copy. 

After admitting this, you should prepare yourself for the difficult part. Breaking news; not all people will like you. And even if they do, they won't like you everyday. We are all fuck-ups, remember? Including the mente. Now, you need to understand why what the mente said fucked your mente – your mind – so much that it feels like you're being the last person on earth and you are immortal. In other words, why you feel so absolutely rejected and alone.

The last step is to understand how useless all of the above are. At the very end of this lifetime – your lifetime – you have to be likeable to yourself. Think about it for a moment with your mente. Who will be always with you? You and your other 19 personalities. But let's assume you have only one. So, you and yourself. You must learn how to handle yourself in the darkest and the brightest moments of your existence. Because they both are equally frightening. Or can be potentially scary. Fuck what the mente thinks. Can you simply live for yourself without waiting the approval of others? Can you be you without the need of constant reassurance that whatever you pretend to be is okay for others? Can you please just be you? You will not be happier, but surely you will be more at ease.

Rejection is always on the menu. That doesn't mean you should starve to death.

Enjoy your meal and cheer up a bit.

Existence is futile!

A–

Nothingness

I am the lonely shipwreck that stands at the end of the world. I get eaten day after day by the untamed waves of the dark blue ocean. Everyone abandoned me but I am still standing. I fight every day. Look at me. What have I become? An absolute nothing fighting at the end of the world the endless void of the universe. It is lonely here. No one passes by anymore. There is no lighthouse to guide my way home. There is no new land waiting for me but this. At the loneliest place of the cosmos. At a shallow part of the ocean of the memories of humanity. Look at me. I am the living-dead reflection of the ruins of mankind. There is nothing to be found here. I am neglected. Look at me. Limbo is my only comfort. Oblivion is all I crave from all the bleeding wounds of my body. Look at me. As I am sinking under the waves, all I want is to sleep. You were my only salvation. But you didn't look at me. You looked in me.

The flowers should be given to the living

I got used to you not being here.
And I got used to wake up and not finding you with my hand.
I got used to drink my coffee black and not having to fill your cup.
I got used to walk alone in the city of pigeons and I got used to return home without expecting to find you waiting for me.
I got used to you not cooking for me and I got used to not having dinner together.
I got used to sleep alone and I got used to the distance.
I got used to your absence.

I still cannot get used to the fact that it's killing me and it's making me a lesser person.

Copies.

Millions of routes.

Up and down the street, inside the bus, in the cars, on foot.

Millions of possible routes to follow.

Destroyed people that move mechanically. Breathe mechanically.

Alienated souls wandering around carrying on their back what is called “life”.

Everyone without exceptions is destroyed. Some a bit more than others.

At the traffic light, a dying woman waits to cross the street. Her hands are wide open and raised as if to invoke a higher power. Her eyes are filled with anticipation of the inevitable.

At the next corner, a junkie is taking his daily dose. His eyes are closing slowly as he injects death. His gaze has the color of pleasure.

A car is passing next to me. There’s a couple inside. Blond hair blowing in an open car as the wind commands them. Playful hands outside of the windows trying to catch a handful of oxygen. Two pair of eyes full of vanity.

A pregnant woman walking on the pavement. Her belly almost reaches her neck. Inside her, one-more human is swimming. A ring on her swollen hand reflects the indication of eternal love and devotion.

I came across all your possible versions. In every street I walked. In every night I got wasted. In every exhale of smoke and in every cigarette. In every breath and every fear. Within blurry eyes and drunk conversations. Within all the awkward laughter of people and the formal “good night” handshakes. I came across you in crumbled sheets and in every orgasm.

All your possible versions have disappointed me and now I'm dead sure that your original was never conquered.

Unto the lonely road

I walked along the river today, on this green and full of trees street. The one that I always met you going to work when I was leaving, and half the times I turned my face so you wouldn't see me. Let's face it, you weren't my cup of tea and either was I.
Today I decided to walk home from work regardless my foot's wound that started bleeding halfway but also the rain that didn't stop falling from the grey sky all day.
As I was walking, I searched you in the face of every person who passed by me.
I was feeling the urge to see you passing. All I got was nothing.

They cut some trees, did you know?
You can calculate the age of them if you count the cycles of their trunk. I stopped and stared.

I thought that all their life were simply existed there. And one day someone decided to just chop them off in half.
Half.
I was never full so I cannot imagine how being half feels like.
I surely know how it feels to be empty.
I went out in the evening. I promised myself that I won't think of you and I won't waste myself.
I tend to break my promises a lot lately.

For(n)ever yours,
A.

The bees will be(e).

Caught your glance across the room.
You looked at me and I looked at you.
It was like looking at a mirror.
As if we are one person. One entity.
Fighting the oblivion of each other's life.
Filling the void of each other's mind.
In the short life that a glimpse of an eye lasts, love was born, bloomed and died.
And then we continued our paths separately and never saw each other again.

The bees will be(e).

Pumps

The river always ends up in the sea. Even if its flow can be misleading.
The heart is just a pumping muscle.
One life is just a blink of an eye that will be lost and forgotten in the eternal oblivion of the universe.
Are you still willing to play?
Do you want to see how deep is the rabbit whole?
Follow the river and it will lead you to the sea of love. Or the sea of despair, forgetfulness, remorse and broken pumps.
Are you (still) with me?


Yours always and never,

A.

One.

"And where one goes from here?", I asked you. You turned and looked at me in the eyes and softly whispered that "one always goes where one's heart belong", and you smiled. I hesitated a bit and then told you "but what if one's heart belongs to no one? Where do you go from there?". You looked to the crowd of people passing by. You pointed to the river and told me with your serious voice – the one you used to address me when you were about to say something that I should put deep in mind – "you always know where your heart belongs, even when you think your heart doesn't belong to anyone. Sometimes one can be lost, like the first time you came to this place. When you didn't know where this river leads. When you didn't know if it goes this way or the other...". You paused to take a breath and you continue "it was never about the river flow, wasn't it? It was always about where the sea is, right?". I nodded. "I know you can't live without the sea... But you figured out where the sea is. I trust you enough to find out where your heart belongs. Just follow the river", you said and you smiled with a bit of bitterness because you knew that I was long gone.