Joy
It may sound like a cliche that one should live life as if every day was the last one, but I think we all go through life wasting time, money, wisdom and mostly lots of possibilities to learn and enjoy who we are and what we do. We often forget to be grateful for what was given to us and choose to see what we don’t have, and so life goes by in stress, bitterness, sadness or denial.
I used to deeply mourn the passing of my father and for many years I remembered the pain, loss and anxiety related to that particular moment in time. Each one of us has experienced concentrating on the wrong things I guess, it’s part of the journey. But the other part for me was understanding that a life is not measured in its loss, but in its love and the way it has touched others. It’s not measured in tombstones but in the memories. How we touch others has nothing to do with the length of our physical existence. Nobody disappears, we are all part of the same fabric of time and universe as we know it and as we cannot even fathom it.
I used to feel so sad on this day but in recent years my heart is filled with a very serene peace. This morning the sun woke me up with a surreal shine and I have genuinely felt my father is here, with me, always. I am grateful for his life and love and he is with me in my heart, in my blood, in my soul and in the memories.
Have you lost a beloved one? No, you have not really lost them. Their life is a gift and blessing, rejoice in knowing they are with you, always!
For my dear father Ioan Galasiu with love.
300 words and photos Adela Galasiu, December 22nd 2018
Tea
She had not written for many days, weeks, months, it felt rather like eons. Struck by a fierce silence, she didn’t find the words any more. Painful silence, coming from deeper than the words can say. From deep within where thoughts do not have time or do not dare to descend in normal days that gallop worst than wild horses. Life seems to have stopped and unfolded in front of her eyes with a sort of cruelty that she did not know how to swallow. Cruelty or acute sarcasm. As if life itself would have smiled at her with half a face and smashed her badly with a slap coming from the opposite side.
Yes, life is sarcastic and unfair. Who told you that there are happy ending stories? There may be many fairy tales, but not many real happy endings. She did her best to make things happen but at some point she understood that she has no power over life itself, that life is a far bigger force than she can even understand with her mind and that all she can do is to accept with humiliation that in some ways she has lost the battles long before they have even begun.
Shredded often between her beautiful imagination and the cruel reality, she had learned that the most powerful thing one can do in this life is to survive. And the most crazy to dream. She has never dared to lay on paper all her thoughts, out of fear that if she would have done so, maybe the whole reality would have cracked over her. Yet in moments when nobody noticed her, she has dared to close her eyes and without a word to imagine a parallel world where everything was different than in this one.
There was in the end no lesson she could have cascaded on others. No great wisdom and no big prise. She had only learned that she knew nothing and as such, she stopped talking about life. She stopped complaining and equally she stopped rejoicing. She had reached a state of acceptance that was similar to the shell of a tortoise, trying to keep the very core of her far away, deeply hidden from any pain.
In an untold resilience her spirit has lost many other souls, even the ones she has loved the most. Their voice has faded just as sudden as it has made itself heard. Their presence has stopped shining a warmth of goodness and joy in her existence. Yet she was adamant she did not lose them completely and she will once again have the blessing of meeting them all. In her fantasy at least.
On the corner of a little table hidden in a tea room where nobody stopped today because of the horrible weather, she broke her silence, but allowed the secrets to remain in the deep hidden corners of her soul, brewing there, unknown to others, yet ready to emerge one day, truly full of magic.
500 words, memyselfandela, November 2014
Lunatic
The absolute solitude embraces the caryatids but has not forgotten the smile in your eyes.
I spend my days with my rebel freedom, with the stone kings and the frozen time.
Life continues to pulsate in the depths of my heartless veins.
On the same stairs where you were holding my hand
The rain has replaced the sound of your footsteps beside me.
Your wish for happiness has not yet extinguished my soul.
I write like a lunatic on the corner of every table I happen to find,
In the silent places where I have once been with you.
Lunatic. Yes, I am a lunatic. The absolute lunatic for loving you.
111 words, memyselfandela, February 2014
Photo: Photobucket
WHY????
This happens in Lebanon… Why ??? We humans are said to be inteligent and wise…
What are we if such atrocities happen? What does it say about humanity???
And they say that if you save a life you saved the whole world…
Source : http://piazzadcara.wordpress.com/2012/04/14/pope-rat-in-lebanon-franklin-lamb/
Proud Of My Broken Heart
“Proud of my broken heart,
since thou didst break it.
Proud of the pain,
I did not feel?
till thee.
Proud of my night,
since thou, with moons,
dos’t shake it.
Not to partake thy passion,
-my humility.”
– Sad Love Poems
by Emily Dickinson
The Cardigans – Live And Learn
“I stared into the light
To kill some of my pain
It was all in vain
Cause no senses remain
But an ache in my body
And regret on my mind
But I’ll be fine
Cause I live and I learn
Yes I live and I learn
If you live you will learn
I live and I learn…”
Jeune lionne – l’ amour , Nichita Stanescu
Jeune lionne, l’amour
a sauté sur moi.
Elle m’avait guetté, toute tendue,
depuis quelque temps dejà.
Ses blancs crocs, elle me les a enfocés dans la face,
aujourd’hui la lionne m’a mordu la face.
Et brusquement la nature
se tourna en cercles tout autour
de moi, tantôt plus large et tantôt plus près
tout comme des eaux serrées.
Et le regard jaillit en haut,
arc-en-ciel coupé en deux,
par l’ouie aussi rencontre,
des alouettes tout près.
J’ai porte la main à mon sourcil,
à ma tempe, à mon menton aussi,
mais la main ne les reconnaît plus.
Et elle glisse inconsciemment
sur un désert rayonnant,
sur lequel passe en douceur
une lionne cuivrée
aux perfides mouvements,
pour un temps
et un autre temps…
He who dies (Ode to Life), Pablo Neruda
“Slowly dies he who becomes a slave to habit,
repeating the same journey every day,
he who doesn’t change his march, he who doesn’t risk
and change the color of his clothes, he who doesn’t speak to he whom he doesn’t know.
Slowly dies he who makes of the television his guru,
he who avoids a passion dies, he who prefers
black on white and dots on i’s rather than a togetherness of emotions
exactly those that make the eyes shine,
those that make the heart beat
before error and feeling.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t overturn the table,
he who is unhappy in his work,
he who doesn’t risk certainty for uncertainty
to follow a dream,
he who doesn’t permit himself at least one time in his life
to flee sensible counsels.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t travel, he who doesn’t read,
he who doesn’t listen to music,
he who doesn’t find grace in himself.
he who destroys his own love dies,
he who doesn’t allow himself to be helped.
He who passes his days lamenting
about his own misfortune or the incessant rain dies.
Slowly dies he who abandons a project
before beginning it,
he who doesn’t ask questions about topics he doesn’t know,
he who doesn’t answer when he is asked something that he knows.
Let’s avoid death by small doses,
remembering always that being alive requires a much larger effort
than the simple act of breathing.
Only burning patience will bring within reach a splendid happiness.”
“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”
Mother Teresa
Little things
Little things can ease
The wounds of your soul
Maybe only the thought of
Being sheltered under a wing…
Little things can fill
The emptiness of your heart
Maybe only the love
You have not been yet given…
Little can cover
Your hundred years of solitude
Probably only
My solitude.
Nobody knows that I love you
“Nobody knows that I love you
Only my soul
and he is silent.
Nobody will know that I love you,
only my soul
which is quieter than ever.
My soul and my voice
because the motr scream I love you,
you do not want to listen.
Now I know what is silence
Now I do.
I wait every day
the waiting time.
You are in my child dreams
and in my great needs.
In the silences that are beyond
to confess in the afternoon.
In the heavy silence
full of loneliness.
I wait and not tell you
where you can find me.
I love you and I do not wait for you
Because it hurts.
I have you and I can not have you,
because I can not find you.
Because in my days of adult
I can come after you,
Because in my child nights
The cry comes to find me.
Because I love you innocent
because I hate implacable
because my sex is forgotten,
but I forget not my blood.
You have sought and found me,
Now I wait,
and you do not come to me.
An angel has lost his voice in the silence,
but I speak to your soul
soul magical and mysterious.
I do not know if I’ll ever hear the voice of an angel
I do not
really, I do not
because your soul is mine
My soul is trapped.
If our souls before God are one,
it will be the soul of our children,
and our children’s children … ”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
” Nadie sabe que te amo,
sólo mi alma
y es muda.
Nadie sabrá que sigo amándote,
sólo mi alma,
que está más muda que nunca.
Mi alma y mi voz,
porque por más que grite: Te amo,
no quieres escucharme.
Ahora sí sé lo que es el silencio,
ahora sí.
Espero día por día
el momento de esperarte.
Te espero en mis sueńos nińos
y en mis necesidades grandes.
En los silencios que escapan
a confesarse en la tarde.
En los silencios pesados,
cargados de soledades.
Te espero y no te digo
donde puedes encontrarme.
Te amo y no te espero
porque me duele esperarte.
Puedo tenerte y no puedo,
porque no puedo buscarte.
Porque en mis días adultos
puedo llegar a buscarte,
porque en mis noches de nińo
el llanto, viene a buscarme.
Porque te amo inocente,
porque te odio implacable,
porque mi sexo se olvida,
pero no olvida mi sangre.
No te busqué, y me encontraste,
ahora te espero,
y no vienes a buscarme.
Un ángel perdió su voz, en el silencio,
pero me habla con su alma,
su alma mágica y misteriosa.
No sé si volveré a escuchar la voz del ángel,
pero no me importa,
de veras, no me importa,
porque su alma es mía,
mi alma la tiene cautiva.
Si ante Dios nuestras almas son una sola,
y serán las almas de nuestros hijos,
y de los hijos de nuestros hijos…”
Utopia
I close myself again in my world… in the trap of solitude… I stopped walking, unwillingly, and my smile faded on my lips… the colour in my eyes froze spreading tears of ashes…
my soul has turned into a bizarre delta, with countless arms through wich the whole sadness of the world is flowing… time was not on my side… when I missed you the most you have hidden yourself like a criminal, killing my feelings… you set my soul on fire and you left me a mountain of memories, a dirty thick water of sensations and feelings and dead dreams, sad water, dirty water, yellow like the face of a corpse… dirty water that my soul has to filter day and night, flowing in my cells in long moments… endless drops of sick time, bizarre time, irreversible time…my idears turn into a dirty brown, my wings are cut, my flight is an utopia…
My beautiful love
“…My beautiful love, my great love, my tear
I carry you in myself like a wounded bird
Not knowing to watch the past
And repeating the words that I said
That will also die for your eyes…
There is no happy love…
It is already late to have more time to learn
Our hearts cry together every night
Suffering for the smallest song
Paying with regrets for every small shiver
Losing the breath for every guitar song
There’s no happy love….
There’s no love that is not pain
There’s no love to live without tears
There’s no happy love
But it is our love, it belongs to us both.”
Il N’y a Pas D’amour Hereaux, Nina Simone
About me
the Mother and the Child
the Destroyer and the Builder
the Teacher and the Pupil
the Darkness and the Light
the Tear and the Laughter
the Dreamer and the Realist
the Rebel and the Submissive
the Traveller and the Guide
the Dispair and the Hope
the Loneliness and the Shelter
the Lover and the Solitary…
I’m all in one name: Woman.
memyselfandela 