Thursday, December 28


"Is it the time that flies by, or is it just the older getting stories of a old looking young heart?" asked the poet to the child looking with dark olive eyes as if the poet would be giving him the best toy with his next sentence. The sentence did not come, neither the toy..

"His fingers are touching the keys so softly, that the tone does not want to sound. It doesn't break my heart, it doesn't let a tear drop fall down. It is this distance between taking me away from what I am, making me someone I would want to be, someone I can't handle to be..". The silence was filling in the room with the pause of the dance of the fingers on the keys. "This is not my dance, it has never been.." A small bouquet of light fell in through the almost covered window. Slowly, softly sat down on top of his shoulder. "This is not my dance.."

"A spring waltz shall be our melody. The guests should feel as if they enter a fairy tale when they enter this room. They mustn't even blink for every moment being worth to see.." Her voice shattered in last words. Her voice disappeared into her watery eyes. "Every moment.." she said, "..every moment".. He was not listening any more. The words became meaningless already. The sound became too much to hear. He wanted to go away. He wanted to go. He wanted..

It is always the naughty child of the day to blame for the bad, ugly and sad. Not because everything and everyone is looking the same, not because every breath is colder and every word is heavier. When the shadows go to sleep, when the colors feel tired.. When the naughty child of the day comes out to play all by himself. It doesn't ask those everything and everyone to join him. He doesn't say a word.. Like a shy bird, suspiciously looking to food in the hand of a stranger.. Like a shy bird, doesn't want to fly..

"How many of yourselves will you talk to, to find yourself your self that you would like to stay alone with?". He made a face as if the question was too long to listen. "How many of yourselves will you want to experience before you get tired?". Like a small school child, he looked at his hands, his fingers. For a moment, he was about to find himself counting them. He didn't. "Do you realize that you are hurting yourself more than you are hurting your other selves?". He looked outside from the window. "What a crowded street!" he thought, "yet, there is no sound in the room except my own. The windows must be made from a good material.". He made a half turn to show his face towards where she was talking from. She was looking worried, but not scared, just worried. "When I saw her first, it was her eyes.." he remembered, " was still her eyes..". "This time, I talk to you, not to your other selves, just to you and you alone!". "So stubborn.." he thought. "Alone.. Interesting word..", he exhaled, longer than usual this time. "I need to speak silently, more silently, until I stop hearing myself. Maybe then, I can understand what I am talking about..", he exhaled again, shorter than usual this time..

"I want to dance on your lips with my lips. I want to write a poem with my fingers on your breasts. I want to sing a sonata with my breath on your thighs. Would you let me be your artist, my dear lady?". She smiled. Looking down with her eyes for a moment, then back towards his face. She wanted to find one small piece of dishonesty, a small glimpse of a lie.. There was none.. "Shall we dance?" She smiled.. "It is not my love, I am offering to you, my dear lady. I am offering you my passion, my obsession.." She looked at his inviting hand. "So many deep lines in his palms. So many old scars on his fingers.." she thought. "Today, I want to be all yours, my dear lady. You have to forgive my soul. He wants to fall in love with you first..". She smiled..

When you can't even cry for the harms people have done to you; and when your goodness started feeling like a stubborn goddess growing in yourself, which song will be rescuing you from your paralyzed existence? A step forward, a step back. Trying to unleash yourself from the bondage you left yourself in.. Is it even worth fighting? Is it even worth changing, when those around you are so far away from the changes you propose to them? What makes you believe that the goodness eventually will take over the change towards the good? The questions you don't know the answers from.. The like poems looking like never finishing, never going nowhere.. But they all do finish at some day. All poems will change some day.. And when the poet looks to the child, as if he would be waiting to take over his youth leaving him the old age, "Is it the time that flies by, or is it just the older getting stories of a old looking young heart?" he says.. She looks at the child with dark olive eyes as if the poet would be giving him the best toy with his next sentence. She smiles..