essential readings flow over the sky
in scattered light feathers of transparency,
souls of angels dancing in abstract patterns of joy,
leaving behind the dull gray led of stormy clouds.
take the sun for a heart
to fill you with the rhythm of light,
overflowing the limits of your human syncope
and the chasms of your mind.
I am there, dissolving in the blue,
setting and rising, silent ray following the sempiternal shine,
eroding heart growing again to be human
remembering that I was once meant to be born free.
90 words, Adela Galasiu, 2016
Photo: Adela Galasiu
It was a kind reminder of a Saint’s day
moved too soon in the life after life
where flowers never wither, and rivers are always fresh,
and the human heart is forever coherent.
John has not killed any dreadful dragons
still, in a humble sacrifice
he has blessed others and has made possible the glory
of the true Life.
I have found these faint memories
in the depths of an imaginary drawer
with fields of gold tenderly waving in the wind
like the breath of my father on his birthday.
Dedicated to my father, John, born on St. John’s day, June 24th.
90 words, Adela Galasiu, 2016
defrosting (syn)apses and dreams.
in renewed life
from the ancient mud.
Leaves waltz stormy with the light
Bees rest tired feet for a spell
before conquering another petal.
Sit and listen.
be humble. be grateful.
you are. now. alive.
45 words, Adela Galasiu, May 2016
Photography: Adela Galasiu , April-May 2016
Motto: In the beginning, the thinker, the feelings and the thought were one. It was bliss.
After a very long conscience sleep, he woke up wondering how he was spending his days. He was mostly trying to predict positive outcomes for his actions, but sadly that was not happening often anymore. As he opened his tired eyes, a heavy headache was hanging in his brain, writhing like an agonising phantom. His mind, populated by thoughts of the way he was spending his time, wondered if actually this was the way he was living his life. Was he living or wasting his life?
Aged 47, he was no longer a young idealistic lad, he had spent almost all his life indoctrinated that only producing and scoring matters. This has dried out his soul, that child soul he used to have that was able to taste, to smell, to feel joy and to abandon himself to the moment of happiness. All that mattered now was who you become, what you have, how much you can produce or how much you know. In the depths of his soul, he could not let go of the memory of being free, feeling, living, enjoying the experience called life. Yet, most of the time, there was no time to enjoy, feel and be happy, there was only time to rush, strive to be better and work. It all felt like chasing up a forever retreating ghost.
He could not help but think that there was a sort of innocence that was taken from him. An awareness and a consciousness that only illuminated people could reach at this time, and there were fewer and fewer of them. Generations of them have died trying to defeat powers beyond their strength.
The reality was cruel. Getting ready for work he feared that again he will have to face the cold domination of the metal race. Hardly any human had a chance to manage all the tasks laid ahead. Hardly any human could take decisions as fast as required or work without a break for 20 hours a day as requested. Exhausted, one by one humans were falling asleep standing and falling apart, while being replaced with clones, with no hearts but with powerful circuits. Soon even the few pushing the buttons in the control room were to be replaced, and a whole race was about to become obsolete. All people had become inhabitants of the same machine, batted constantly around by the same wheels that turn around faster and more painful than ever. The world had become abstract and cold, and the very brain that had created this reality was about to become obsolete in a universe of constant movement and flux.
Just like his ancestors, he had always fought for some reassurance and certainty in life, but generation after generation had failed to find the holy grail of peace. They have all died trying, tortured in a world that had become more and more aggressive, that had forced them to perform and produce more and more. A world that has robbed them of all innocence and all joy. A world in which one could not be present in reality anymore, because of the anxiety, inner torture and stress generated by the survival game. A game that looked very much like the experiments with rats racing desperately through mazes 500 years ago, hoping to find an escape. Yet he realised that he was only alive in this present moment, and by not being able to feel it and experience it he was robbed of all his existence.
That day he was unable to concentrate and work like he used to. The machine has quickly observed the abnormality and has taken him out of the assembly room. In a matter of minutes another, fast and cold, has taken his place. Nobody cared, there was no second chance, all that mattered were the numbers changing fast on the screen of a supervisor.
Broken and defeated he returned to the place he called home. Not a house, but rather a little capsule in a huge hive called now the city. Leaving behind the clay and divinity that created him, the memories of may successive lifetimes flew in front of his eyes for a second. With all the sensitivity encapsulated in his soul, lethargically and agonising , he was slowly dying. A new race , cold an ruthless, was taking his place. Future was there. Metal and circuits have crashed Adam.
Memyselfandela / Adela Galasiu, January 2016
Many years have passed since his loss, still the one thing she could never understand was why she had seen all the other departed loved ones in her dreams, but never him. It felt as if he had suddenly completely vanished. She had prayed for him and lit candles, hoping he had found his peace. She has always regretted not having told him how much she loved him and not being allowed to say goodbye. The thought of him being alone in agony minutes before he passed away has always made her heart deeply bleed. Maybe in other circumstances she would have come to terms with his sudden departure and would have let go, but all that pain(his, her mothers and hers), has created a cursed loop of sad memories around the date when he had passed away.
Tonight, another year has passed. Silent cold winter night outside. Sitting in her armchair, with grey hair and her finger touching the window, she can still see him with the eyes of her mind, his temple leaning against the cold window of an old train that was supposed to get him home, but has instead delivered his soul to an unknown destination.
Cold winter, a rusty train moving slowly through a vast plain of white, snow gently falling from the frozen sky. He is worried sick about his wife and daughter and prays God that the train could move faster so he can get home and hold them in his arms.
While looking out through the cold window he observes the snow flowers growing in beautiful patterns. But a sudden claw of pain catches his chest. He knows it’s his heart, the same pain like few months ago when he collapsed in the living room. Only now it’s so much more intense. He tries to call somebody, but nobody’s around. He tries to stand up, but his feet are too heavy, he cannot catch his breath. The compartment starts turning around him, faster and faster, a carousel from which he has no strength to step down. The intense pain paralyzes him, and while unable to defeat the pain, he exhales resting his forehead on the window. He understands that this is the end. His thoughts fly far to his beloved family while he slips into a deep silent dream.
As he opens his eyes he finds himself barefoot, leaning against a willow tree, the same tree where he used to play as a child. There’s an amazing glow in the sky. He wonders what happened to the pain in his chest, but it’s all gone. He runs through the grass and gets his feet into the river.
The cool water, the sounds and smells make him feel young, his heart filled with an enormous joy. It feels as waking up from a nightmare where he was dreaming he was having a heart attack alone in a train. He is back now, young and happy, no fear, no memory, no pain. In a distance he hears familiar voices, his mother calling him, his childhood friends coming. Yet he tries to understand why every once in while he dreams of this unknown girl, that seems so very familiar. He always dreams the same thing: she is praying for his peace and that he is happy wherever he is. She is talking to him, asking him where he had vanished. It’s a mystery who she is, still, he feels as if he knows her since forever. Dreaming her makes him feel sad, because every time he sees her he tries to embrace her, to comfort her, but she doesn’t even notice his presence.
One day he asks his mother what this may mean. Smiling she tells him : “Next time when you will dream of the unknown girl, look around you . There must be something you need to do before these dreams will stop, God has His reasons.”
Sat in her armchair, asleep, she dreams of a field full of flowers where in a distance she can finally see her father. She recognises him, young and looking happy, and while seeing him, tears stream down on her face. She smiles and her face is suddenly lit by an unearthly happy glow.
He can hear her talk to him in her mind: “Where have you been all these years? I missed you so much. I never had the chance to tell you how much I love you.”
He reaches his arms towards her trying to hold her, but once again his arms pass through her as if he would not be able to touch her material body. He feels saddened, but as he turns his eyes around in the room he notices on the table several pictures, most of them are hers with her family. Out of all the pictures, one catches his attention: it’s his picture, as a young man, holding in his arms this little girl. Who is she? Then he notices a note written in ink on the picture: “Dad & me, 1979”.
He looks amazed back at her. She is older, but now he suddenly remembers the shape of her little nose and hands while playing with her as a baby. He finally understands and he feels deeply heartbroken at the thought that his child has spent so many years crying for his loss. He was never lost, how could this be possible?
While she leans her temple against the window like he once did, he kisses her forehead and whispers in her ear: “My child, I found peace and I’m always with you. I know how much you love me, I love you too. Now stop re-living the past, live YOUR life, it’s time for YOU to find the peace and to be happy.”
He lingers there for another moment listening to the ticking of his daughter’s watch. He smiles. After so many years, for one moment, he can feel again the passage of time before returning to Paradise.
1000 words, memyselfandela / Adela Galasiu, 22nd of December 2015
In loving memory of my dear father Ioan Galasiu, who passed away 26 years ago. I truly believe he has found peace and Paradise.
“Yes, It isn’t always wise to say
that the muses get silent among weapons..
My words are here and I hold them
as you would hold a spear.
Mother, forgive me, I couldn’t otherwise.
I know you’ve been quiet all life
and I should have , maybe, done the same
but out of our silence
a scream had to gush oneday
and here it is, filling up my mouth with hope and tears
and with a sunny sadness
that is mine, I’m not sure,
mine or my grave’s. But
this has almost
no more importance at all.”
Octavian Paler, Poems
“Da, nu e întotdeauna o înţelepciune să spui
că muzele tac între arme.
Cuvintele mele sunt aici şi le strâng
ca pe o lance.
Mamă, iartă-mă, nu puteam altfel.
Ştiu, tu ai tăcut toată viaţa
şi ar fi trebuit şi eu să fac, poate, la fel,
dar trebuia odată ca din tăcerea noastră
să ţâşnească un strigăt
şi, iată-l, îmi umple gura de speranţă şi lacrimi
şi de o tristeţe însorită
ce-mi aparţine, nu mai ştiu,
mie sau mormântului meu. Dar
aceasta aproape nu mai are
nicio importanţă. “
Octavian Paler, Poeme
Translation: Adela Galasiu