Week 21

He loves his job, a lot, because it helps him remember a past that he has never lived, but about which he heard many a story by his forefathers.

Tourists don't come too often, because there's nothing much for one to see in his parts of the wood anymore; a few impalas, a lonely antelope maybe, some zebras, and if they really get lucky they can even catch a glimpse of an old lion that has probably lost its way and wandered here.

But these few things, these few animals, are more than enough for him, since they give him the chance to meet and converse with a few foreigners, which in turn allows him to escape the constant boredom and walk for once again in the misty landscapes of his ancestors.

Short Cuts 4

That night trip to the falls. Magic. I don't have to ask you. I know you remember. How could you not?

The blanket on the rocks. The sweet red wine. The whisper of the trees and the thunder of the water. And the stars above. A sky unlike any other. A wonder unlike any other.

***

Where are you now? What are you doing? Is that flame that once pierced your eyes and engulfed my soul gone?

I wish not. As I wish you'll seize to fight. You'll never find happiness where others do. You scare people. They can't handle your honesty. And that's my fault.

***

Friends move on. Friends make new friends. Friends forget. And sometimes are forgotten. But not lovers.

Young love is an ode to the misery to come. And yet. Give me young love and I'll be willing to sacrifice everything at its shrine. Now that I know better.

***

They say that people can't save us. We can only save ourselves. But how can that be? How can that be?

If there are no people in your life, there's nothing to bind you to this world. People may be our killers, but they can also be our saviors. Different people. The ones who are right for us.

Make me, I'm begging you. Make me into someone else. But, alas, I know you cannot hear me...

The image was taken from here.

 

Short Cuts 3

Someone once told me that I was going to drink my life away. I wish they were right, but they were wrong. I know how I'm going to die. Out of boredom. Like my favorite poet did.

Death. It follows my thoughts wherever I go. It breathes into my ear. It makes me want to live. And die.

***

Is there a part of you that still loves me? I wonder. But why would there be? Your eyes are now open. To all my flaws.

And yet. I always think tenderly for you. Because what I had with you was truth itself. Our love made me who I was meant to be. No matter that I hate who I am.

***

The first words. Those I didn't write for you. But that is of no importance. She's now yet another picture in the pantheon of my life. While you are more.

The muse. The conscience. The first person that ever made me admit my mistakes. And whom I've failed.

***

The songs. The music that we've heard lying on a carpet in my house. The lyrics we sang along to.

Your paintings. Your failing. Because you could create miracles if you put your mind to it. But you never believed in you. I still see them. Every day. As a reminder of…

To be continued.

The image was taken from here.

 

Short Cuts 2

I recall. My words. The death of our parents grants us the freedom to die ourselves, I've said. Or live. Depending on the faulty psyche.

I was right. And wrong. A death has set me free. But its memory has kept me captive. Death is the joker in every pack of cards. It decides your fate.

***

Give me a reason to live, I scream to the stars all night. And by morn I'm rich in reasons to die.

The dawn comes as a curse. It promises to bring me yet another day of one and the same. The same thoughts. Silences. Regrets. And anger. Anger towards me.

***

Mercy. I should have shown you that. By staying away from you. I was your bigger blessing, you said. I was your grandest curse, I knew.

You gave me inspiration. You gave me love. And I gave you false hope. And I bought you gifts. And told you how great you are. But, at least I gave no promises.

***

Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson sang. But hope is the opposite of dream. Hope is the great pretender.

The ones who dream should do. Otherwise the dream will come to naught. And those who hope should dream. If for them there should remain a hope. It seems that playing with words is…

***

The only thing I know how to do. I was always a storyteller. On the page. In the real world I was a hermit.

I cannot understand the way you think, you said. It was okay. I couldn't understand it either. Then. Now I know. I can only find redemption in the written word...

To be continued.

The image was taken from here.

 

Short Cuts 1

You have potential, I've said the first time I saw you, and for a long time you sat still, as frozen in time, before replying, no I have not.

Our perspectives were different. You saw the world, I saw what it could be. Now we just both see the world, and melancholy is our constant.

***

I remember you. Your skinny body. Your unruly hair. The way you looked at me sometimes, as if I wasn't real.

I wasn't. Our reality was an illusion. But not at first. What started off as a joke came to be. What came to be was beauty. And beauty, as time passes, always subsides.

***

When did that happen? When did things…? Oh, forget it. I know the answers to all the questions. When it comes to us.

It all began with my cowardice. My unwillingness to sacrifice some of my personal space. And with my stubbornness. If I could go back, well, I would change nothing, because then what was true to us would seize to be.

***

Life. They say that it moves in circles, but it doesn't. Death may be the recycler but birth, no matter how many times it happens, is not the creator. It's simply the mother of all repetition.

***

My thoughts do not arrive whole, but in pieces, like shots of vodka. Great when ice cold, not so good when warm.

I try to smile and I cry. The great paradox. Or rather the parody of being. What I need to say I will, but only when drunk. When uninhibited. Though that I have never been...

To be continued

The image was taken from here