When It’s Over

The dreaming cloud is swirling above her head and she is losing herself in all those question marks unanswered…

How to respond to challenges and not crack? Where to escape when her conscience constantly nags at her? Who to follow when the hopelessness beats the promises? How to stop the foolish games and trust that they are all part of a design, which is much grander? Which path to choose, the unknown or the proverb? How much longer will the moon and its fullness delay?

Oh, she is pushing herself hard these days… and now the same old cloud becomes unbearable…

How to sprint ahead while taking a backward step? How much is an attachment really costing her? Will the future of love be very similar to its past, as he said?

Is it really over?

S

Walking Past Open Windows

“Do you know what *genius* means?,” the stranger on the train asked me. “Hmmm, someone who is smart; I mean really smart. Smarter than the norm,” I replied. He shook his head with a messy crop of hair on top. “A genius is someone, who never gives up. Never give up writing love. Never be obsessive about what others think of your words. Try to write the words, which float out from your unconsciousness; in the middle of the night or elsewhere under any special circumstances,” he said.

Last week, Kerry asked us to talk to a stranger and write about it, which for me is nothing new or offbeat. I do it all the time. On the train ride home, while my mind was full of new and old ideas, the above conversation took place between me and a guy who seemed graceless with a huge inner scar. I got home, ate something and fell asleep. I had a dream. I don’t remember a thing. I woke up to the sound of the alarm and the same routine began. A few hours passed. I looked peaked. Took the lift down for some fresh air in temperatures far above zero. I took a quick glance at my own shadow and realized that only a shot of espresso can bring my focus back to reality. I entered the little shop on my right, put the coins, including a lot of pennies, down on his counter and asked for a double shot. He looked at me with a sweet smile. I looked at his inner arm and saw an appealing tattoo font. I grabbed it and read: “Keep walking past open windows.” I asked him to tell me the story behind it. He did with a bigger smile, looked into my eyes, and said: “Never give up.” I was stunned. A few tears found their way in my eyes. Two strangers with diverse histories told me the same thing in less than twenty four hours.

I walked more unfocused out the glass doors while listening to the sound of the Doors: “People are strange when you’re a stranger… Faces look ugly when you’re alone…”

… and that day, I never got back to reality.

S

Sailing Away

“Saturday I’m running wild… and all the lights are changing red to green…”

I distinctly remember his warm voice in my head… I remember clear crystal, my Aussie friend, Megan, whom I was daydreaming with about David Gray and about one wild night when we would finally see him in person on the big stage, singing the songs which were once the soundtrack of our London-time memories… the constant dreams, which were often distracted by not-so-friendly customers asking for a million size requests or were wondering if we had the red sequined skirt in stock.

Oh, how I miss those afternoons… how I miss my chilled friend, Meg, whom regrettably I lost touch with… I left the country with David Gray’s CD in my handbag, in case my luggage got lost or stolen… I immigrated to the land of nature with small desires but big hopes… Meg left to continue the rest of her life in her homeland, at least for a while… contrary to our wishes, we never met Mr. Gray.

On Saturday night, after almost twelve years since my love affair with the guy, whose voice still make me feel nostalgic, I drove to Hamilton with someone who appreciates his music as much as myself, to see him live on stage… and let me tell you this much: he was no different than years ago, but this time he was no longer a dream alone, but one which came true.

I sang, screamed, and stared at him, refreshing the memories in my heart and remembering the good old times… and suddenly I felt strange and started to miss those days, Megan and all the silly talks, when we were sailing away and were running wild on Saturday nights.

S

Paralleled

Here is sunny Toronto (pronounced /təˈrɒntoʊ/)…

I’m clicking on these little white keys and fancying the sound they are making… while the other half of my brain is on strike and struggles hard to get away from the virtual world and take a journey to… hmmm…

I am lying down, yawning non-stop, and craving a quick blissful nap on the wet but fresh grass, which was just trimmed less than an hour ago… hypnotized by the iron lattice tower, with a bottle of Vin de Bordeaux on the other side of my body… and the poor girl is all puzzled and tries desperately to find me among hundreds of napping souls.

In the parallel world, I am sitting with my usual venti cup in a corner park, full of wobbling creatures, and where I’ve never been to but will discover soon… sitting on the other side is a fully pregnant lady in orange stripes, who’s deciding whether to name her newborn Sophie… or just Sun.

… and I’d like to know how to return back to my own box.

S

The Crying Wolves

It’s almost dawn;
I hear the howling of
the tearful wolves
and all those enraged
souls.

How can we bear the pain
and the hatred
floating out of the
bodies of many
around us?

How can we
mourn the mother,
who will mourn all her life
and melts as the
candles on the birth cake
of her own son,
who won’t see the
Autumn of
thirteen eighty nine.

The moon is crying,
and the countless stars.
The voiceless birds still weep
for their loss all long night.

The classroom full of innocent eyes
staring at the emptiness of the board
on the black wall;
waiting for his body to shine
so they can all salute him
and rise up.

What to confess when
they are murdering his
tortured thoughts?
Where to flee when
the war is about to start?
The same bloody war
that goes on for
oh so long.

I heard his last breaths
with the noose
around his neck, with all his glory
resting on the prison soil.
I feel the tears of
all the crying wolves.

I wait and crave
the day
of upheaval;
the day of the monsters
prosecuted
in front of
the mourning moms
and us all.

S

Gâteau d’Anniversaire

The month of May with all its natural beauty… the month of birthdays of loved ones close and far… the last few days were spent around many cakes in different shapes… or over the phone to wish them all that they wish for.

The lady, who’s beyond love and has been my idol for all my life… the one who, beside the genes, made me who I am today… a great friend, who defines coolness and whose blue *Lego* cake made us all nostalgic in the tapas bar… another lovely friend, whom I met a few years back at another birthday bash of hers, when she blew a candle on a half-watermelon cake and made me admire her uniqueness… and the little birthday boy for whom I was present when he opened his pure eyes to this not-so-pure world in room number seven.

They might come with many insights, but they are all Taurus with a sensible outlook on life… they might come from different times, but they all closed their eyes, made a wish, and blew a candle for many more happy returns!

S

Sylvia

My twenties…

The years of adventures, immigrations, and corruptions;
The years of falling in and out of love;
The years of insomnia and of the crying nights;
The years of heartbreaks and of boiling inside;

The years of reading Sylvia – the greatest – Plath;
and constantly relating
to her magnificent poems
and despaired life.

To her “Mirror”, where she is silver and exact;
Her “Candles”, “how shall I tell anything at all”;
The “Morning Song” in which “our voices echo, magnifying your arrival”;
And last but not least, her Bell Jar,
where she talks of Esther
and her life.

On June twenty third of the year two thousand and ten, I am going to present my favorite author and poet, the one and only Sylvia Plath, to the lady who helps me immensely in putting down my thoughts and to those, who are in the same boat as mine.

S