Stuck

I'm not the type to comment their work, but I feel like this one deserves a line or two. This is the single piece of non-novel writing that has taken me so long to complete. Literally 2 years in the making, I feel like this is now ready to see the light of day. It will probably make little or no sense to any of you. Based on a quote, I've developed it over these 2 years into this and it's a reflection of me and everything that happened between then and now. Thanks, J.

I go nowhere to be somebody,

To say nothing and feel everything

In the shades of anywhere

And in the plants of everywhere

I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere,

In the meaning of somewhere,

Talking with my beauty in your words,

Singing lullabies we never understood.

Swim in the fire and die in ice while

I build the bridges you burn,

In hopes that your walls will fall down

And you’ll mirror me with your grace.

Map my soul with dots and lines;

Draw all the lines between
Your world and mine;

I am in love with cities and people
I’ve never seen.

I look at the sky on a bright

Summer night and I wonder,
How do I know if what I see as blue

Is the same as it is to you?

17.06.2014
Replica

Seventy-five past Midnight

Fifty-seven minutes after midnight. I open the bottle of whiskey. I pour myself a glass and I sit, looking at it, as if by some miracle it would give me the answers I seek. 

My mind wanders off to far-away, long-ago places; to where I tasted you, whiskey on your lips. 

I hate whiskey. 

Yet, I'm drinking just that, at fifty-nine minutes after midnight. Whiskey, mixed with lime and ice, just how you like it. I wonder, is this a curse, sitting here thinking about you, or is it a blessing that no one will ever understand, but you and me.

Sixty-one minutes past midnight, I pour myself another glass. Lime and ice, and I can taste your lips in the glass. Is this bliss, or am I insane?

I think of songs. Sixty-two minutes after midnight I'm stuck thinking about songs over whiskey. Isn't it pathetic? Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's something people do, but don't admit. To themselves, to friends, to anyone. I wonder if I can make it to seventy-five minutes past midnight.

My mind is clouded by whiskey, yet clearer than even before. I know who I am and who I want you to be. I I remember that house we looked at and how much we want(ed) to have it. Just for us. Ours. Sixty-four minutes past midnight. 

Sometimes I wonder what you like so much about whiskey, but then I remember. It tastes of me to you. 
Sometimes I wonder what I like so much about whiskey, but then I remember. It tastes of you to me. 

So, is this a blessing, or a curse? Should we laugh it off, or worry? What if...?

No, no, I don't want the what-ifs. I want to live it all, right here, right now. I want to have it all, even if I lose it all. I'm not afraid. I won't hide behind excuses and song lyrics. I don't want you to hide either.

Sixty-seven minutes after midnight. Hold on. 

Seventy-one minutes after midnight. I start to hesitate. Part of me wonders if you'd see it. Part of me knows you will. Another part of me wonders if you'd understand and another part knows you will. Seventy-two minutes after midnight. I know you will, because this is how we work; we understand each other. We understand each other to the painful point of knowing what the other one would do and accepting it. To the point where we sip whiskey alone, yet together. Seventy-three minutes. Make it another two. Then you can allow yourself to. Two more minutes...

Another shot of whiskey, can't stop looking at the door, wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before. And I wonder if I ever cross your mind? For me it happens all the time.
It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now. I said I wouldn't call, but I've lost all control and I need you now. And I don't know how I can do without.
 
I just need you now.

03.02.2013
Replica

The Urgency

They say that when two people meet, they know right away if they met before. There's an instant bond and the feeling that you've known this person for years. You can predict their every word, their every move and when they look at you it's like you can read in their eyes exactly what they want and why they look at you. You know their smile and those dimples. You know that when they laugh they crinkle their nose and when they touch you, it's like they know your body by heart. 

Those people can read you, even when they don't look at you. They talk to you on the phone and then you lie to them, you alter the truth for some reason and they know you lied. They call your bluff, but they're not mad at you. They laugh and tell you not to lie to them again and you laugh, thinking you should never lie to them again. Next time you would call their bluff and tell them to never lie to you and they will listen and they won't lie to you again. 

You can predict their actions and they can finish your sentence. They know your every thought, every idea, every dream you never shared with no one and they know it down to the last tiny insignificant detail. When they laugh, you laugh with them, when you cry, they cry with you. They don't need you to say anything because they already know. 
Time and space lose their definition. You feel like a moth and they are the flame. They feel like a ship and you are their lighthouse. You lead each other and the other one follows, blindly trusting the other. You don't question where they'll take you to because you trust them. You trust each other more than you trust yourselves. You learn from them and you teach them. There is an urgency that guides you.

The urgency to say and do, and kiss, and make love, create beautiful things, share sadness, wipe each other's tears away, laugh until you cry, whisper secrets to each other, talk cryptic around others, so that only you two understand, tease each other, share a cup of coffee in the middle of the night, order a bottle of wine in the morning, have pizza together, share an ice-cream, visit new places, visit old places, get drunk, get sober, sing, dance, walk, smile, sleep, watch movies, discuss possible things, discuss impossible things, sit in the park, make up stories about people around you, but most of all there's the urgency to just be there, next to that person, no matter where they are. 
And that urgency will never go away.

22.11.2012
Replica 

Lotus

See the flower and how beautiful it is,
Feel its kiss – a taste of bliss.

Taste the flower, taste it, please!
Take a bite, a taste of bliss.

Get lost in time, and space,
Forget the world and its embrace.

Stay forever here, oh, how beautiful it is!
It’s a garden, a garden of pure bliss.

See the flower and how beautiful it is,
Feel its kiss – a taste of bliss.

Get lost in bliss and forever
Sleep in timeless, peaceful apathy.

12.04.2010
Replica

Fallen to Ruin

Standing in the rain,
We vowed never
To be apart again.

Standing in the sun,
We promised to be
The only ones, the One.

Rain raced on our skin,
Sun glimmered in our eyes
And blinded, we never saw
We never saw the end is neigh.

Standing the rain again,
We vowed to never meet again,
To be apart again.

Standing in the sun again,
We promised never to believe
When someone calls us the One.

Rain raced on our skin,
Sun glimmered in our eyes
And blinded, we never saw
We never saw how we fell.

And we stand here today again,
In rain, in sun, in pain
And we still don’t see -
Fallen to ruin we have,
With our hearts in our hands
And rust on our chest.

22.03.2010
Replica

Theater

The curtain fell heavy, hiding them all from the eyes of the audience. The actors could hear the excited audience applauding them, showing their appreciation. The happy faces that were smiling just a second ago were now indifferent to everything. They were tired of traveling, of doing the same things every night, of dressing the same way for every performance, saying the same words, pretending to feel the same emotions over and over again, when they were empty inside.
Most actors were young people, who thought it’s an easy, fun job to do. Back when they signed up for drama school. You could tell by the disappointment in their covered in heavy make up eyes it was not as glamorous as they pictured it to be. With time, and each performance, their hate for the costumes and make up grew, made them bitter, taught them to wear their masks well and hide behind their characters. The actors had lost their souls after giving a piece of it to every character. They were soulless, empty creatures of habit – make up, costumes, a smile that touches your eyes – and on they went, to fool themselves, and the audience, that they were the character portrayed.

One man among them, an old man, whose face was painted in white with two bright red dots on his cheeks and black eyeliner, was smiling. His smile was touching not only his eyes, but his whole soul. Most actors loved to play tricks on the old man, but they all respected and resented him for keeping his soul for so long. His daughter was part of the theater and traveled with him, taking care of him and his costumes and most of the other actors thought she was holding his soul together, sowing it back together every night, once the costumes were peeled off and the pieces of soul with them.
The old man, quietly fidgeting in the corner of the stage, fixing his costume, felt a cold hand sliding on his shoulder. His smile widened, but he never looked up, nor stopped fixing the folds.
"Hello, dear friend," he said. "I have been expecting you."
He finished with his costume, a ridiculous mix of colors that added up to his artificial red cheeks and black eyes, then slowly turned around. There were just shadows, but he knew his old friend was there. He had seen him coming, he knew he was close. A step later, shadow engulfed him, hiding him from the actors, quieting down the silent hum of the actors preparing for curtain call.
"Before we go, do me a favor. Take me back to the first time I met Rosalind. Take me back to the twilight of the theater, to the night I met my life's greatest loves. Give me the happiness of the moment and I will go with you freely."
The shadows stirred and a quiet voice answered, sounding as if talking was more than painful.
"Give me your hand, friend. Do not fear me."
The man laughed and thought he had never feared Death, not a day in his life. A bony blue-white hand appeared from the shadows, the palm outstretched to the poor man. He closed his eyes and took the hand unhesitatingly, drawing a deep breath as pictures, memories and emotions flooded his fragile mind.

He blinked to the bright light he knew well from the stage and opened his eyes.
"Rosalind..." he whispered, looking at the big, luxurious theater. There were two people sitting in the middle of the theater, looking at each other as if nothing existed. Her blond hair was flowing down her shoulders and her blue eyes were glistening in happiness. The man next to her – instead of the comic bright red, his cheeks were a beautiful shade pink that darkened from time to time with the ever so slight embarrassment by the attention the woman was awarding him with – his eyes were deep brown, lively, smiling.
The man on the stage felt the known warm feeling of tears filling his eyes and the picture before him blurred. He sat on the edge of the stage, in his colorful suit, with his bright red cheeks and listened to the two people in the theater talking. He sat there for hours, sometimes smiling, sometimes crying at what they said to each other.

"Give me wings," he whispered. “Give me wings, like I had them then and let me fly. Let me fly..."
The cold blue-white skinned hand slid on his shoulder again.
"As you wish, my friend."

The man collapsed from the shadows on his back, his rings making a loud sound as his hands hit the wooden floor. All actors turned to the corner, their attention drawn by the sudden noise and they all gasped, emotion painting their faces in dark, sad shades – the man was lying dead on the ground, in his bright-colored suit, with his bright red cheeks and a smile, the most beautiful, sincere smile on his face.

21.03.2010
Replica

Angel Wings

Angel wings she has, the purest white;
Angel wings she spreads, the purest thought:

"Look, look, angel wings she has!
Is she an angel, really?"

Angel wings she has, the purest white,
And to his eyes - the purest thing alive:

"Yes, yes, angel wings she has!
She is an angel, in fact!"

Angel wings she spreads, the purest thought,
To those in need, in pain, in naught.

Angel wings, the purest white,
They come off at darkest night.

To him, she still has wings –
The purest white, the touch of silk.

29.01.2010
Replica