If I would have to tell you who I am now, I don’t from know where I would start. I was probably swinging too much between the light and the darkness, the good and the bad in me.
Long time ago I loved you. It was the time when all was beautiful and open and real and honest in every way.
Then things changed. A time came when I saw how you were looking at other women, how you were playing me, how you were inventing excuses just to gain time. But I still loved you. I was giving you my time and energy while you were leaning back. I was imagining our life together paddling on my own.
I did love you but then I hated you. Every time when you let me down. Every time when I felt forgotten and unloved. Every time when you rejected me or didn’t see me , every time when I suffered because others around had the happiness you have never bothered to make happen for us, you and me. I will always remember how I hungered for your embrace, but it never came. For a phone call from you, but the phone never rang. How you took me for granted, how I became a mess.
I did love you and then I hated you. And then it didn’t matter anymore. And that day all was over.
If I would have to tell you who I am now, I don’t know from where I would start.
I am no longer light, I am no longer darkness. I am the quiet above. I don’t need you anymore, I’m fine without you. I was a mess, I confess. And now I am only the dream of a love that should finally be meant to simply be.
300 words, memyselfandela, November 2013
Carnations. Red bloody curly petals all over the cold hard floor. Pain filling up her aching soul, an acute sense of bloody uselessness, her life breaking to hopeless pieces, dead flowers covering the ground, remembering her of a love that used to mean everything but that has become nothing. She felt no longer his presence, no longer his loving words, no longer his loving touch, she felt abandoned like a piece of unwanted trash, rejected like a broken mechanism that could no longer tick with sounds of life once known. All left was only the disfigured shadow of the man she loves.
Pain. A way out she prayed to see again. No idea how tomorrow would look like. Not the vaguest strength to carry on with this tragedy. Him, laying sleeping drunk on the floor, holding still in his fists the rest of the carnations brought to tell her what he didn’t know how to verbalize anymore, him all surrounded by the rest of the bleeding shreds scattered allover by her in an attack of passionate rage ignited by seeing him coming again in a state that never stopped to humiliate her in front of family, neighbors, strangers.
She, in a corner, crying, endlessly cursing her own life and wishing she would have never been born or no longer been alive. He, in another corner, sleeping, seeing in his dream her beautiful face, radiant with the love she used to give him, as he caressed gently her cheek, feeling so bloody guilty but so in love with her while kissing her forehead, this awesome woman that could no longer see how much he bloody loves her, how much he is depressed because of not knowing how to turn back the time and start it all over again. With her. From scratch.
In a far away land there is a city with hundreds of wise houses. Each house has a roof, a soul and an attic with two windows. Eyes scrutinize the birds that get back to their nests late at night, the grannies that bake homemade bread, the blatant children playing outside, the flowers raising their heads in the sun, the cats that purr in hidden corners, the dogs hiding their precious bones, the women that dream of the return of their husbands and the husbands dreaming of other women.
Every day opens a new color, a new hope, ends a life and begins others. Every evening sends to sleep all the rippled memories of the day, all the children and cats and birds and wives and husbands. Some of the grannies will sleep longer, other babies will get born out of the dreams of past nights. Some of the flowers will grow seeds, others will bloom, the stars will seem to rotate on the sky awaiting the rays of the same sun that has opened the eyes of all the children and women and cats and husbands and grannies and birds.
When morning comes the smell of coffee invades the streets. It fills up the sky and the staircases of all houses. As eyes open life vibrates, noises clash in the air, birds sing again, cats lick meticulously their paws and wash their furs with slow movements on the edge of wide open windows, dogs inspect every corner of their territory, children moan instead of waking up, wives pack lunch for their husbands, husbands go to work hoping that the day will be better that the other days. And even though life seems the same, it is always different.
In the city where houses have eyes life can still flow in unexpected patterns. Houses have eyes in Sibiu, Romania.
300 words, memyselfandela October 2013
Childhood. Life seemed to be the easiest thing,with endless possibilities like the countless shades of color trapped in his iris that curiously expanded at the sight of all the marvels around him. Time had millions of tunes, millions of facets, millions of open doors for the brave heart of a young boy seeking for answers and treasures that he suspected all kept intentionally away from him. Roaming through the immensity surrounding him the days were unveiling more and more mysteries created just to fill up his thirsty mind. Life was his, life was beautiful and full of hope and wonder.
Maturity. Many of his old childish questions have been answered, yet this did not manage to satisfy his mind and soul. He was convinced that life is more and that asking the right question might bring him the answer that owned the whole universe. In the middle of his existence time meant more, as he realized that he had already wasted too much of it. Life was carved according to his own choices and hesitations and remained a force he was still fighting with while holding on to the few impossible crazy dreams he never gave up on his way.
Old age. As it conquered his being he felt how he had lost most of the battles. He felt alone and misunderstood for years till one morning when, while sipping his coffee, he had the epiphany of his own fleeting existence. With wide open eyes and with life still flowing through his veins he understood that he meant nothing on his own but an instant, a little wheel in a huge mechanism, a second in which the whole universe was glimpsing at his own image trying to photograph the experience lived in a form of life not yet tried before.
300 words, memyselfandela, September 2013
It was flowing, vivid, all over my back. Warm. Dribbling. Unceasingly. Waking me up from the tiredness. Waking me up from my own death. Lingering on my spine. Giving me the shivers. Flowing , caressing my skin, and from my skin penetrating inside my tired bones, and from my bones penetrating like an echo in my very soul, echo lingering between the end and beginning of me and between the walls of my solitude… The shower revived me, but it was a fading reminder of your hand. Your hand, lingering in my soul. Your hand, touching decaying flesh but ending in the core of what I used to remember as being me.
Life is a flow. It has been a lot of emotion flooding. It has been a lot of tears drowning me. It has been a lot of paddling alone on a sea of solitude. From the moment I opened my eyes without worries in this world to the point where I was scattered in million painful pieces wondering each if they still belong together or if they should stay forever apart. Life is a flow, just like the time. The time in the sand glass has ended. I have turned it. Now all flows backwards, now my heart fills up with the touch of your longing hand.
In the dark corner of a lost pub we are listening to seagulls screaming on the quay. The waves kiss passionately roaring behind metal bars imagined to keep us safe. An old couple eats supper while we share the taste of light and color. It smells like chocolate brownies and vanilla ice cream. It tastes like heaven and rain, like beads of sweat on your upper lip melted by my lips kissing your very soul. It smells like heaven and you smile beautiful like a rainbow.
300 words, memyselfandela, August 2013
Her arms open like the wings of a butterfly as she draws colors nobody has ever lived. People pass her by, but stop for a moment to see the shade of sadness hidden in her broken gypsy smile. People come and go while she imagines universes turning round and round like ticking clocks spinning in the tip of her lost apostle finger, while she tries to recreate out of color and dust the lost paradise. Lost like her thoughts, lost on an island that she never reached, a place where her heart would find finally a breath of rest.
Her dress, her black dress, she hated it so. She hated how it made her feel. She hated how he made her feel. She hated all she tried to be for him. She hated that she loved him. She hated to see him write about that dress, using her presence as an inspiration for his stories and phantasies, while she was bleeding inside. She hated him and all the women he was talking to, she hated him with the same passion she has once loved him. Her dress was black that night, mourning for her broken heart and wasted love.
I have died one night. I have only died so I can learn how to fly. And my greatest dream was to fly over the sea to you. On the beach, where you lay your body and shadow, I rest my head next to you. I try to feel the warmth of your bare feet but I can’t anymore. I try to lay my body next to you, but you don’t even see me there. Yet I look at you, breathing and gazing far away, and the light that fills up your soul flows through me too. And I smile.
300 words, memyselfandela – August 2013
You love me unconditionally, but you can only compare me. You love me pure, but you can’t be happy. You love me, but that’s all, you don’t know me. You honestly love me, but you don’t know the trash of my soul. You love me (at least that), but you are too selfish to show it. You love me completely, but all you have in your head is “my hands are tied, my body bruised, you’ve got me with nothing to win and nothing left to lose”…
Today more than ever it pains me. Every word unspoken, every touch ungiven, every kiss not shared, every word not necessary…And tomorrow, more than ever, others will pain me, just the same…
I want a white room with a mattress on the floor. And a life made out of simplicity when we rediscover your toes getting out of the sheet in the morning or my fingers on the edge of the window. I think it’s funny how much negative we’ve been holding inside, it feels it’s about time to empty this all in the big bin outside. In the ecological bin. All this trash shouldn’t be deep inside.
Over, under and around us is air. And loads of life inside of us.Armies of cells and molecules, working and sweating and running around to make us live. We are 90 percent water. Streams running down the mountain side of our being, transporting essential salts and chemical reactions and oxygen.We are science, we are mystery.The gift of life spills and fills every crevasse. You would hate living inside your body. A 9 to 5 in your lungs or your liver. You’re over worked and under paid with a shitty boss and knee deep in toxic waste of cheese puffs and beer for 8 hours… Imagine this… Now stop fucking complaining about life.
300 words, memyselfandela, 2013
I love birds. These days I was watching a couple of birds that have the nest near by. Everything in their life is so simple and true. Every minute he or she fly over to their babies and bring them food and take out the dirt. No questions about life, no fears, nothing but love and devotion and a complete surrender to what God created them to be.
I wish people were like these small creatures. TRUE. HONEST. LOVING. REAL. Capable to take full responsibility for the connections they make. Capable to mean what they are saying. Available really for the real life not lost in illusions.
I loved everything about you. For many reasons and just because. To me you are a miracle from God, I fell in love with the beauty of you. I loved the way you said my name. I loved the way you wanted to tell me things. I loved your smile. I loved how you translated for me. I loved your eyes. I loved your laughter, it was so very beautiful. I loved your body and the look in your eyes in the middle of the night. I loved that we were so very connected. I loved laughing with you, breathing with you, being with you, asking you questions. I loved our conversations in the night. I loved that you cared about me. I loved you even when you felt awkward around me. I loved you even when you behaved like a fool. I loved your hugs and how they felt so warm and safe. I loved how you trusted me and how I trusted you. I loved knowing you and you knowing me. Oh how I loved you… And I still love you, and I will always love you, but you shouldn’t know all this.
I think I want a paper boat. One with no paddle. I think I don’t want any night tables. I think I could perfectly live without drawers, compartments and surfaces on which can be found empty pill boxes and packages without cigarettes that go unnoticed for days and days. I think I could also live without the bed. I think it would be so very healthy if I had nowhere to hide bottles and dirty glasses stained of regrets and pity for my own person.
I think that instead of soul we have each one of us a huge library with shelves from top to bottom, big locked cabinets, boxes filled with paperwork, doors on which signs like “Access denied” or “Come later” or “Do not disturb” hang. Locks, dusty books, new books, books without covers, scratched or cut, with no sheets, yellowed by time, old travel journals, books with old or shiny pictures, a hanging plant in the corner that no one ever has time to water, the old man with black fingers from ink printing, the 60 years old maid working in the loans department, dozens and dozens of compartments with book descriptions and files.
I think I’d like to believe in something. I think today is a good day, like a good decision that is not canceling those other many, good or bad, decisions left behind. I think that it will never be better than this and that I should thank the Divine Power that I exist, I know that the chances for life to change are minimal. I thought that I repressed my childhood pretty well. I think you pressed the wrong button and my head is full of mud again. Well, more than usual.
I think there’s no point in hiding. You have all the keys.
300 words, memyselfandela, 2013
My weekend was compressed in one day this week, Friday, because for the next days duty calls me.
The weather was horrible today, freezing cold and snowing. So whatever plans I had yesterday for going out have vanished in the morning by the sight of that sad frozen lanscape outside.
I mean don’t get me wrong, I love snow very much, but that snow with big white snowflakes that covers the ground and reminds of Christmas. The snowflakes of today were very feeble and the cold was simply cutting through skin.
So I dedicated my quiet day to reading and posting few things. In between I smoked few times, I cooked, I listened to music.
Then I tried to fix one of the lights that broke yesterday. Memyselfandela is usually a very good do-it-yourselfer, but today bad luck. Seems that the cables made a shortcut, so on Monday hopefully the mentainance guy will change the whole lamp and if he succeeds he will tell me again the joke : “hehe, it costs you 50 Pounds”… So I will answer him again with the same smile: “hehe, go straight to the manager”…
I have spent all my day with my old friend, my sciatic pain, a friend that kindly visits me every once in a while. I am a very warm soul and I welcomed it a bit too often, it seems now my friend wants to stay for longer.
I have read awesome posts all day long, listened to fabulous music and worked myself on several posts, so this was a great day after all.
I know that outside, despite all that cold, flowers continue to grow and prepare to show their beautiful faces in the morning sun.
So Good Night World, tonight I’ll be dreaming of restless buds and shiny sunrises.
Last minutes. They were down at the bar, looking deep in each other’s eyes, in an unspoken killing silence.
He knew he has to leave now, tonight, for he was supposed to stay only for one night, but he managed to call his wife and stay a whole week end. She managed to call her husband and ask how were the children doing, saying that her sales meeting was to be extended for another day.
She was looking at him with a screaming passionate sadness that was tearing them both apart. Deep deep sadness, her lips still hot, pulsating from his lips, from his taste, from his passion.
She put her hand on his cheek, trying to caress him, trying to comfort him, even though she was dying inside. Then her arm slided around his neck and she got closer to him.
Time to go. He completely forgot his drink, he could not get his eyes from her eyes. No words spoken, only a shredded heart that had to go now, half in her chest, half in his, bleeding for God knows how long.
Without even breathing he took her in his arms for a last time before taking his luggage and going for his flight. Tears streamed in her eyes, tears in the corner of his eyes, he held her so tight that none of them could even breath for a minute.
Their heart was one for another few moments.
He found his way to her lips and kissed her as if it would have been their last day of life.
As he kissed her and held her so tight a thought fell like a lightning in his mind:
“Why can’t we be free? Why do we have to leave at all? Why? Why?? Why??? Life’s such a damn bitch!!!!!!!”
This is my entry for the Trifecta Challenge of this week.
Nothing special. She knew that she was just one of those he liked to kill time with when he got bored with his good life, when he needed to feel strong and special and smart.
She used to admire his beautiful clothes, she loved to caress him, her eyes closed, smelling his perfume. She was always natural and childish, and she saw in his eyes that he loved it. And every time he came she could not stop the feeling that she knew him better then all others.
Sensual she was. He used to tell her so. Beautiful, simple and unique. That’s what he told her often together with quotes from old songs lyrics that he thought she would not recognize. But she always did, smiled and kissed him.
“Silly woman” he thought. “She thinks she knows all better. She thinks she knows me better than all. Well, she knows nothing. How can she know the hell I’ve been through all my life?”
He liked her. He could not stand the thought she might know his fears and solitude but he was incurably attracted to her. Could never say why.
One morning he called her. Someone else answered the phone.
“No, she does not live here anymore. She moved out. She only left a note for you.”
Short breath, shock, panic. He needed to find her. How could she leave him like that? A note? She left him a note? That was all?
Hand shivering he knocked at the door. A tall man opened ,gave him a puzzled look., then returned with the note and gave it to him.
He stopped and sat on the stairs opening the folded piece of paper:
“I loved you, but I know, I don’t know you at all. You are right, I’m nothing special.“