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I'm gay. I'm not out...yet. I'm quite introvert. I spend more time thinking than sleeping, but I rearely confide in anyone. At times when my world expands too wildly I pour some of it out into my writings. Yes, I do live in two worlds, this world and mine. I'm not religious but I admire the Sun for its ultimate power and loneliness. I also like eagles for the same reason. I'm open when it comes to making friends, but to maintain that friendship appears sometimes to be a problem for others. I'm obsessed with the idea that I am suffering from S.A.D., O.C.D. and motion sickness. lol Isn't there enough trouble from me?
Yeh... [sigh]... I know I'm a drama queen...
We are two, made from earth and blood, a lot of wind, a pinch of ice, the whole summer night sky, streams of sunshine, the spongy clouds...
We are two, made of one heart and soul. We sat down and put together ourselves piece by piece, your head resting on my shoulder, your breath slow and warm on my hand, your hair tickling the skin on my neck. In front of us is the big puzzle whose completion will also be ours. Would you like a cup of tea? Or something stronger? How about coffee? Sugar? Would you like some milk? Have you tried putting some whisky in it?
The best part of me is in this piece: peculiar shape with uneven parts jutting out, simultaneously demanding, begging and regulating what can fit in the place beside it to conclude, to perfect or to expand it, or to expose it to more imperfection. Or - where my eyes look - to your pieces.
To you.
To you, I sang. To you, I wrote. To you, I flapped my wings. To you, I called out...
To you,
I find my way. Somewhere for me to fit in. So this is what it means by "I belong to you".
Where do I find the time to think about you always? I dig in my pocket and I find it there, like something I've forgotten: a tissue that I left in my pants and after a torrential wash I'd find it in bits and pieces all over my shirt. It's really hard to get rid of the mess. What I'd do, I'd sit down and search through the shirt all over, picking out every single bit.
In a world of missing, you asked me how memories would survive. Survival means fighting, losing and winning. Survival also means struggling not to be forgotten. Imagine youre walking along the pavement on a bustling Monday evening, then just accidentally or perhaps due to a trivial habit you slightly glanced over your shoulder and it was right there. It caught you off guard so that you tripped over your own shadow.
So, you came back. You softly spoke without a movement of your head. But your eyes flickered.
Yes, I am here now. I dared not take one step further for fear of invading your space. We had become strangers. Are you alright? which is an ordinary expression of care. Somehow it sounded to me like an overused social etiquette bare of any real concern. Yet, how can one tell if an expression is true or fake? Wouldnt it be subjective to judge others feelings based on your own feelings?
What does your puzzle piece look like without my piece?
You barely turned your head. I am alright. How are you? I got startled by the gentleness of your voice. Another too familiar expression you said, however, I believed it. I believed it because I saw it in you, in the crinkles at the corner of your eyes, in the hint of a smile on your lips, in the aura around you.
And I didnt know how to answer your simple question. It left me tongue tied. It struck on me like a hammer on my skull. As if I had just got pulled out of an icy cold pool of water and dropped right in the middle of a summer country road. Utterly confused, I fell on my knees and stared at you staring at me. Look at me! You said Look at me! A long pause, then a whisper: How did you find me? Tell me where I am, please!
We are two, made of well-preserved, silly wishes and dreams. We are two, made of long murmured conversations in the middle of autumn nights, under crystal sky, on aromatic grass bed. We are two, made of hand in hand eternal walks in the shade of the evergreens along the quiet afternoon path up the hill.
We are two, made of forever.
I am a red leaf sleeping on your shoulder.
I heard you cry for the full night; you never stopped.
I heard the Autumn leaves tossing in their beds, their muffled dream mutterings revealing a burning desire for bedfellows. They were getting burned by their own dreams. My spirit was sent into a tailspin.
Down and down I went. You stayed up high watching. I thought you were sending those tears to accompany me so I opened my hands to catch them, but they slipped through my thin fingers. The flash of light reflected from those tears alone struck my eyes.
You haven't been sleeping well, have you?
Do you just have a good eye for details or am I really getting so trashed it shows?
You're getting so trashed.
You're a harsh surface to rub my esteem on.
I'm a grater a your soul is a garlic clove. I'll disintergrate it so you can see better what's inside.
Don't play with my heart.
Is it a toy?
Yes, a costly one.
What's the price for it to entertain me?
A fraction of your heart.
That is reasonable.
But I will only take a fraction and no more.
Meaning?
Meaning you'd have to break your heart and give me just a small piece.
Yes, I'll give you a chip of my heart. [Took the heart out. Slammed it on the pointy edge of the table. Bent down to pick up a small fragment. Handed it over.] Here. And I still have the bigger part of my heart.
[Smiled sadly.] A broken heart, nonetheless....
What did you learn from watching the dawn? I traced the Sun around the horizon. My eyes watered from all the watching. There were cones of light raining down on my face. At times, I thought it was your touch. I could sense the warmth dancing from the tip of my left ear, down the side of my neck, a little twirl on my lips. It would eventually rest on my nose. Just then another two trails of warmth would run down my cheeks. I would open my eyes to find the sand under my feet littered with tiny wet spots.
Surely the liquid was no less salty than sea water. Did you ever taste tears?
It is your time to arise. At the last moment I stole a quick grip on your hand. No firm hold could ever keep you. Nevertheless you turned around and looked me in the eye one last time. Let go! Let go! I told myself. And so I did. And so I regret.
One summer morning, I walked past a fence and I saw you sitting there. Joy suddenly filled me in. There was the sight I ever so wanted to see again. I smelled your scent in the breeze. I watched your back and felt my heart swelling with happiness. I ran and called. Ran. And. Called.
You. Jumped. off. the. Fence. to. the. Other. Side. of. the. Fence.
I halted with my foot in the air. Would it ever hit the ground as you stood there smiling beyond my world?
It demands mass attention. You don't lose sight of it even for one second because then it will surely vanish. Only your wish keeps it alive.
ALIVE...
Balloons fly high in the sky. Higher and higher until they look like little teardrops falling backwards.
I have twelve hearts. Twelve holes in my hearts.
The love I've spent on you is beyond eternity. It defines the strength of my heart which has amazed me many times. Everytime I thought I would have collapsed, it kept fighting for me. Never once did it give up on me. "Stand up! Stand up!", either whispered or shrieked my faithful heart.
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I checked my wallet. Your picture is still there. I went through all the unorganized papers that had been stuck up in my little privacy for so long. I found bits and pieces of the past. The wood products evolved into souvenirs of the gone-by, tasked with carrying the messages that were once thought to be undelivered.
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He's been using that dream as a lifebuoy to keep him floating atop, so I suggest that we not take it away yet. Let's let him dream a bit more until we find a way to cure him of his hallucinatory mind. Well, he seems more comfortable in his dreams anyway. He must be a Dreamer.
They've been forcasting showers for days. As a matter of fact there has been rainfall somewhere out there. Not that he's complaining about it. It's just, he wonders, whether it has left him
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In the uttermost of silence of the night, I lie awaking to the echoes of the clock ticking, embracing myself in the slim arms of my own. I have been thinking this again and again and again. These voices keep coming back to me. They are like my friends now. Their nightly visits have been awaited, welcomed with hesitant fear and ultimate joy. They are my companies throughout the long journeys to the innermost of me, my Self. I see them, on closing my eyes, approaching from the distant gates of the abyss. They materialise like miracles of an angel. They descend upon my dreams, feet bare of hay slippers, wrists bare of hay bands, fingers rid of blood and bony white. Yet their eyes are so blue, sharp and I daresay they are glittery too. As if they were blinded by the void that bore their existence and so they had to fill in their hollow sockets the lights of stars to guide them through their daily route to me. To my dreams.
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