“A lover knows only humility, he has no choice.
He steals into your alley at night, he has no choice.
He longs to kiss every lock of your hair, don’t fret,
he has no choice.
In his frenzied love for you, he longs to break the chains of his imprisonment,
he has no choice.
A lover asked his beloved:
– Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied: I have died to myself and I live for you.
I’ve disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I’ve forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I’ve become a scholar.
I’ve lost all my strength, but from your power I am able.
I love myself…I love you.
I love you…I love myself.
I am your lover, come to my side,
I will open the gate to your love.
Come settle with me, let us be neighbours to the stars.
You have been hiding so long, endlessly drifting in the sea of my love.
Even so, you have always been connected to me.
Concealed, revealed, in the unknown, in the un-manifest.
I am life itself.
You have been a prisoner of a little pond,
I am the ocean and its turbulent flood.
Come merge with me,
leave this world of ignorance.
Be with me, I will open the gate to your love.
I desire you more than food or drink
My body my senses my mind hunger for your taste
I can sense your presence in my heart
although you belong to all the world
I wait with silent passion for one gesture one glance
I could swear that I don’t remember – in complete good faith, although
I realize that this is how things have happened, as she repeated them – a glass of
crystal, beautiful – with the precision of a computer memory, with the fidelity of tape, with the hypocrite shyness of the nerd student who knows too well the lesson.
I look at her – it is her, but like in a dream, she does unexpected things, speaks diferently, and, synchronous with her, also the world is different, it’s surreal. Look, this is surrealism: objects – the same, know another ordinance, have another purpose. So we can say it can also be like this. Now, yes,the kettle is a woman, the stove is an elephant … Max Ernst, Dali, Duchamp … But even Munch’s Scream, I want to scream, to wake up from the nightmare, to get back to our old ancestral land, good and gentle, where, obedient, things are what we know they are responding to the mission that we attribute to them since forever … I wish to get out of this restless city of Delvaux, of this field of Tanguy, with members split, soft and reunited by strange affinities, after other sorts of mating than those settled for us … Here, on Earth. Here cannot be the earth. That’s not her. This Dostoyevsky and expressionist setting cannot be real… I’m wrong, I get higher, I consider myself higher, I certainly imagine this delirious scene for the sake of a role that I would not like to play…
– to be continued
translation: memyselfandela, 2012
Once upon a time there was a silly girl. At least that is how most people considered her.
She was far from being stupid but she only shared her heart with those that proved to be worth it because after being taken advantage of a million times she knew that it’s better to play the stupid. She had no more fears, she knew life, she spoke the truth. She was a real woman, the kind that needs nobody to tell her what she’s worth, the kind that would go to hell and back for her love. She had no problem with being considered a silly girl, with no name, no face and a small life in a simple corner of this fucked up world. She knew that her name means nothing to noone else but her true love.
She was a genuine loner, speaking to her own solitude, sharing online her poetry, dark thoughts and soul. And so many men were attracted by her distant voice, even though she was talking to her long lost love she had never met.
Countless men wanted to meet her, many have swore they love her just to be able to get closer and see her face and weigh her as you weigh a merchandise at the market. And after seeing her face they always dreamed of more, whilst they were talking to many other silly girls and touching many other broken dreams. She learned how to read each one of them, for she saw in silence how they were after other girls like her, flattering them, liking their every post, talking to them in private… She got so used to see men making sure they were not visibly connected to her so that they can stay available for other girls, see them play at several tables, for this is the human nature and most people are selfish… She got used to see how people manipulate feelings, sentimentally blackmail, lie and invent reasons, how they come and go, how they want to give nothing and get everything … She got used to the whole cortege of people connecting with her, good and bad, most of them selfish… She met the crazy man, the true rocker, the photographer, the unfaithful husband, the teacher, the poet, the hindu, the muslim, the christian, the angry, the jalous, the insatiable lover, the dominant male… all great and unique, but all so untrue…
So she let the time do it’s part, she learned patience, she listened, helped, loved… And they came, saw, read, talked, wanted more, always more and showed no patience, no feelings, got distant, got cold, got brutal, got ugly or simply left in anger. Her heart broke many times, but she knew that only her true love will pass this test.
Maybe she was mortified, maybe she faded to black, but she remained true to herself and the man that would not play games behind her. She was what she was: solitary woman.