I’m cooooooooooooooommmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinggggggggggggggggggg, waiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit for meeeeeeeee!!!!! 😀
I’m only a drop in Your sea of lonely souls, God.
And deep inside me reside the pain, the smile,
The unrequited love and the same fear
That run through all the others.
Maybe of all Your particles I am the most blue
Maybe my voice tries to scream the loudest
Like a lost desperate child, like a bird fallen from the nest
So that You can hear.
You , the only one that cares,
The only silent witnesses to all of our inner pain,
Heal our wounds, calm this restless sea and
Hide us in the peace of Your Holy Eyes.
Yesterday I packed my luggage, now I’m ready to go.
I have lived so many things in this house, my first steps, my school, games, laughter, loss and sadness that came years after. Nothing changes our life like the loss of our parents.
As I walk down these stairs I can still see myself for a moment sitting there, waiting for mom to come back from work. I can see that smile on my face and that teddy bear I had in my hand… Sweet memories. But how life has changed…
We must raise from ashes and just carries on.
100 words, Friday Fictioneers
Photo: copyright – Jennifer Pendergast
” In the nights, when I again remember us,
in the dark always and always threatened,
embraced always under the guillotine,
forever obsessed with time and night,
haunted by shadows in which we recognize ourselves,
always as in the first night of the world
and always talking about the end of love,
remembering always the seas and the sun
and always on this black sand of the night
without knowing if tomorrow we’ll be together,
always waiting for the blade of the guillotine to fall,
always the separations,
the love always threatened by others
and by ourselves,
always under this black sun
that enlightens us, when our hands touch,
always scared that our hands
will reach the end of our love
and always dreaming that we love each other without knowing
if we are the first people in the world or the last,
if the world begins with us or it ends.
Always loving in the shadow as Rembrandt’s wise people,
she who does not need wisdom, but hope
yet if we ever die, our love
will not die because of the night
but because we ourselves have threatened it too much.”
Noptile/ In the nights, by Octavian Paler
Translation from Romanian: memyselfandela, 2013
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
the love in your eyes
shines like the sun for my heart
you are my kismet
One of these days I remembered wonderful Beatrix with her fantastic books and amazing characters. In our modern world we tend to completely forget the delicacy, tenderness and beauty of nature and small creatures or the innocence of childhood. It takes an incredible talent to create all this beauty , but not only talent. It takes passion to develop such artistic skill. And only a pure heart can love and see these tiny creatures and their beauty and absolutely love them.
Beatrix Potter (28 July 1866 – 22 December 1943) was an English author, illustrator, natural scientist and conservationist best known for her imaginative children’s books featuring animals such as those in The Tale of Peter Rabbit which celebrated the British landscape and country life.
Born into a privileged Unitarian family she grew up with few friends outside her large, extended family. Her parents were artistic, interested in nature and enjoyed the countryside. As children, Beatrix and Bertram had numerous small animals as pets which they observed closely and drew endlessly. Summer holidays were spent in Scotland and in the English Lake District where Beatrix developed a love of the natural world which was the subject of her painting from an early age.
She was educated by private governesses until she was eighteen. Her study of languages, literature, science and history was broad and she was an eager student. Her artistic talents were recognized early. She had private art lessons, and developed her own style, favouring watercolour. Along with her drawings of her animals, real and imagined, she illustrated insects, fossils, archaeological artefacts, and fungi. In the 1890s her mycological illustrations and research on the reproduction of fungi spores generated interest from the scientific establishment. Following some success illustrating cards and booklets, Potter wrote and illustrated The Tale of Peter Rabbit publishing it first privately in 1901, and a year later as a small, three-colour illustrated book with Frederick Warne & Co. She became unofficially engaged to her editor Norman Warne in 1905 despite the disapproval of her parents, but he died suddenly a month later, of leukemia.
Potter bought Hill Top Farm in Near Sawrey, a tiny village in the English Lake District near Ambleside in 1905, then purchased additional farms to preserve the unique hill country landscape. In 1913, at the age of 47, she married William Heelis, a respected local solicitor from Hawkshead. Potter was also a prosperous farmer keenly interested in land preservation. She continued to write, illustrate and design spin-off merchandise based on her children’s books for Warne until the duties of land management and diminishing eyesight made it difficult to continue. Potter published over twenty-three books; the best known are those written between 1902 and 1922. She died on 22 December 1943 at her home in Near Sawrey at age 77, leaving almost all her property to the National Trust after preserving much of the land that now comprises the Lake District National Park.
Potter’s books continue to sell throughout the world, in multiple languages. Her stories have been retold in song, film and animation.
500 words, memyselfandela 2013
L’amore è forte come la morte
Pulsando forte nel mio cuore
La mia ragione per vivere e l’unica valida
Ragione per morire.
La luce che invade la mia anima
E il sangue nelle mie vene
Tutti parlano di te
Sei il sole nel mio universo, io ruotano nella tua ombra.
Love is as strong as death
Pulsating in my heart
My reason to live and the only valid
Reason to die.
The light filling my soul
And the blood in my veins
Everything is talking about you
You are the sun in my universe, I revolve in your shadow.
100 words, memyselfandela, 2013