It’s that day again
She ran out of words or, rather,
they ran out of her.
They fled.Scared,they hid
in cobweb corners of hollowness.
Like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
And she is the captain,
the last one to go down.
Time flew like a comet,
and years have taken minutes
To dissipate in space.
Making the ship heavy.Not old,but sick.
Dry wood.Doesn’t go down easily.
Alas! At last,when life has flown into
the thirsty sea -a feast
to the monster of thoughts.
Dragging it down.
The waste.The waste.
Smoke veiled streets.
And people with little,
Away from the encompassing noise
that growls like an angry dog –
Two people.Holding hands.
On the right – white oleander.
A river flows on the left.
memory ghosts keep the heart lukewarm,
reduced to silence,
a straitjacket forbidding to move.
Just tasting your name on my tongue.
Can you hear it?
I believe that we all have the ability to do good,but waste it by chosing to do smart.I believe that we are incomplete but we do not need things,we need other people.We reject other people for fear they might not like us if they saw us naked of our social covers.I believe that people are like flamingos dancing their dance in order to pick our pair,but without the clearsightedness of the birds.People are also like apes,preferring the sound of their own voice to the sound of their others.High pitches have replaced soft rolling,when it’s not the voice we should raise but the quality of the things being said.People have become turtles,slow and shelter seeking.But retreat into a shell does not go with if not the hundreds of years and lifetimes at your disposal to play it safe.I believe that we copy the life of animals in a very distorted puzzle where pieces don’t fit.We need the strength of bears, perseverence of ants, loyalty of horses ,elegance of swans.When people know what to see,they will activate their real way of seeing,360° and will comprehend that we are what we do,hence we have to good.And the good shall set us free.:)
Looking from above, each building is a bookshop.People with stories better than fiction.There’s a sweet almond aftertaste of reading their pages,their flats,their homes.Their sleep.Their gray of mornings.Their blue of nights.Some bestsellers.Some unwanted.Untouched.Some thick volumes,others thin pages.The shabbier,trodded the book – the better it is.The same with people.The more bruised,the finer the value.
It is commonly believed that love dies after a period of 3 years.Not love for blogging.We are 3 year old today and love each other just as much ,if not more.Happy birthday,blog!
“You will not age for me,nor fade. Nor die.”(W.Shakespeare)