Adapting the coloured trend to every style sandwiched between flash-like memories, polaroid meteors on the visual map and rhythms, green themselves, and the sunsets as real as a drop of water dripping off the coat of a human being returning home after riding the rain, for the rain.

Tangible pauses, sandwiched between action and no-action

No prediction will ever tell you what is to come.

You open a jar, using the knife with the fine edge

You feel the ceramics of a gold plated Japanese cup, so light, the whole cup, with empty or full content, made as if light had spread the mud under its weight, making it almost imponderable - the repeatable, repeated muddy mess is what gives the weight its lightness.

Bundles of good fortune curating existence.

No one can really tell foundations lie solely on this sort of messy, repeating encounters turned into patterns.

(...)

Photo: Personal Archive

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because on their faces and bodies, but

especially in their hearts, all the flowers of the world

are pressed into...aging.

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While space reminded me of the record I am

Grabbing me tightly, dancing me backwards

Into lights and darks

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For all the people who are on the night train alone thinking about the beauty of the world - lonesome reflection

For all the flowers that bloom after long winters

For all the unsung heroes who were once villains

For all the mistiest of souls who were once lost but now found

For all the bloodshot nights and days that go untouched by love

For all the cowards that will brave the fear

For all the boys and girls without a father figure, and a mom's

For all those addicted to those betraying kinds of love and beauty and who don't yield in to anymore

For all the momentum poets understand and lose

For all those people who will find love and for those who won't

For all those that struggle with forgiveness and want to steer clear of hurt

For all those that fail to creep into the cosiest of don'ts and do's

For all those that risk their lives to gain eternity

For the eternal, sacred time component orbiting around historical time

For all the love left untouched, spread on the crumbs of humanity and the failure of a promise

For all those unspread layers of niceties that hold true to a direct approach

For all the dappled sunlight that shines through trees in late afternoons while squirrels are playing and woodpeckers are hammering on

For all those slow trains that travel through the gorge through tunnels carved in stone, sort of time tunnels stuck as in a time capsule revealing bits of wonders - leaves and berries you could touch out of the train windows

To your soul window that opens into other shut windows, soul windows, and does not care to shut but stays open

For the small towns, seemingly innocent and pure, when no soul is there to be seen in the early hours of the morning. Then, as the day is progressing, the town would eat away at its light while the dark would still dig the light out - rocks of the solid foundation

Photo: Personal Archive

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First of all, she is not dead in the sense most of us understand death

Second of all, you cannot escape the most human example of being a human:

miss, love, miss, miss love - to the extent of not coming across it.

It's very human to be able to miss the one person that gave you life and light and love and would love unconditionally, the best she could in the ways she knew.

I feel I have not yet consumed the bereavement

or allowed myself to fall into the sentimentality of it all

I have been too busy taking over

I gave the only possible answer at that time:

'I'm filled with so many voids that I don't feel any, or anything'

I felt once again the loneliness of not having the right people next to me

I felt sick and tired of people complaining of their fearful and unimaginative ways of living

that sometimes reflected mine

I felt emptied of love and sense and purpose, maybe because of myself spreading too thin

on the people that did not reciprocate

or were just uncapable of love and loving

It's not about you I've kept telling myself

Make it about others - the love, not the lack of it

However, I could but turn to myself when I had given myself too many times to the wrong people and almost never had the right ones who would stay, just stay and be a part of my life

I didn't want to use metaphors for this -

After all, it's a confession

of someone, apparently, selfish, thinking too much of herself, and way too often these days

Photo: Personal archive

Note: The sound of the river is real, and, hopefully not disturbing

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as part of the lifecloth,

in the most inhumanely

humane way, almost undivinely divine,

it is worth understanding: when life

leaves the body, the prominent feeling

is not of absence but of presence

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after a few steps in time Moses has taken.

His return - she following suit, in his footsteps, going a little further, with confidence - the lightness in the younger age would give, in the wonders, in the makings.

'Miss, do you miss...it?'

'The more you give, the less you take'

'Should this be a fair deal?'

'Cast-waiting as in cast-shadow'

For years, not light at all, she's been questioning the 'take', whether anything, anything at all, will be hers, whether she's been foot-stepping, or step-footing life on her own

terms,

terms;

terms:

whether her take on it would be the 'take' or just the 'give'.

'Some will never have a fair deal, just a fair share of...'

'Never say never'

Her return - moving forward, keep moving forward; receive, not take; give, not m...possess.

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while

rolling rocks on the shoulders of the hills

They are singing

while

spitting salt on the bottom of the sea

(...)

they are dancing and in this dance there's us

... ...

... ..

... . ... ... ..

... ... .... .... ... ...............

...

singing

Liam Read's Photo on Unsplash

https://unsplash.com/@liamread

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They call it a heart. 

I call it the lack of it.

(...)

Your baby's hair grows. short 

Of ages of desire, 

Of the beat of innocence, of the last touch of candour.

It grows.

(...)

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Barks that you peel as you'd like to get it

why they don't complain (as we do

when skin peels softly into ages of beauty unsure if only young age you'd call beauty)

when their bodies fall to ground, to die, already dead or just moving into another state the micro universe feeds on

(...)

Photo: personal archive

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slipping her hands into time's pockets.

This pocket having as big events as chasing eclipses on a starry sky, or vice versa.

Verse in, vice out.

The pat on the shoulder from the child they used to be, a peek-a-boo kind of sign,

with a grin on those small, freckled faces

reliving it once again in wrinkled memories

suffering from not finding the fair share

between the past and the future.

Be once again in this together.

The otherness is not a thing they climb the ladder for

is not a thing that happens to many

It is one almost no one strives for when there is as much as the future can hold

Insane to remain restless when you need to rest from all the burdens, flat out - there is a voice that whispers.

There is a little space unfilled, or rather filled with nothing

Just when you decide to jot the square into a diacritical mark called roundness of a shape unknown

Flattened the Earth once again into your hands, also called 'Mmasticated grass as the path flattens out'

Called as in 'named after his father's treacherous behaviour'

No saint is there to praise his doings.

Spend as little as you can on this

Sleep wrapped into your dreams

That prevent you from taking action

when you wake up.

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He bites off the whole of her as if she was no half

He eats her entirely as if she were no half

It sounds terrible though it isn't

It is a story where in order to exist you have to

CANIBALOVE

As that is the highest form of love:

There is no half way to hell or heaven

(...)

Photo: personal archive

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Not until neighing has become the voice of nature in the barking of the dogs,

chirping of the birds and scattering of the wind

Not until you've admitted wholeheartedly

Not until you've disgraced yourself that

you've been graced

(...)

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of being

who you're not, be you.

Someone is taking a picture of you

Of you next to a king and his queen

Maybe it's you taking night snap shots

while dreaming of becoming You.

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This master has only one horse

They brush the skin off of each other

and eat its pores into the undulating Nature -

closing the eyes, everything a Gaussian distribution -

they never ride away with

or eat it off -

an entirely different story:

as they inhabit dreams

as they ride the waves of fortune or misfortune,

not knowing to tell one apart from the other

as they suffer the sheer cry-touch of horror,

absence of the loved one brings about,

coiled, forgetful of the nimbus of light at the end of those days.

This master only rides this horse.

This horse.

Photo credits: personal archive

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To the cry it bestows on humanity

as if the mouth of the tomb was birthing

light where the dark past of unrepented faults

infused into the soft, fluid form

of the body and soul

was glowing its contrary layers into

youngsters, the mature and the old.

Natural filters.

And whether you fill or you(only) feel

the existence of past experiences

the three folds on the swing of the universe

will give you dimension.

will teach you the wrongdoings by undoing them.

Even if you hear it:

"what's been done cannot be undone"

your trust be not swayed!

Face it, all up, all down if you have to,

Don't be swayed!

Clear the land as if you were clearing your throat

And speak those words you're ever reluctant to speak

Because what's hidden, it's also what you're past

Locked and wombed

Birthed into your being being you

being me

Photo credits: personal archive

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unkind buzzes of cars and people all together

as they swing from side to side

teased but not humbled by the wind:

they own this - heads raised

between the ground and the sky

they can afford to differentiate themselves from humans

(...)

Photo credits: personal archive

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God has found a nest in her.

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as we know they have.

(...)

then sacred consciousness

you're left with as you weep like a prophet

(...)

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in every fine line of her body

as age takes its toll and rests

on the only bone that unites the sky and the earth.

Photo credits: https://depositphotos.com/photos/impossible.html?qview=13666763

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while another door closes another

window that opens a window

that closes.

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"Why is it that your shoes crushed the ants?"

"Do you hope to get seen someday?"

He did not answer. A wry smile lit up his face as he went up to her...

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Her ancestors as if condemned, none of them entertained hope,

but she suspended the warped war and soared up to the multicoloured moonbeams,

living out the world's dreams as its youngest resident.

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looking into the sun

warm and golden-coated they become

The outstretched hand suspended in the air

as if...

Feeling with his gaze

the crusty old cheek, wrinkled, soft, yet red

At the same time, as hard as rock, healthy

under the power of tenderness of a wide, innocent smile.

The earthy cracks around the eyes,

under the same bloom of thousands of skins - firm, glowing but also lined,

those cracks of dawn when the day meets the night

have called for a dream:

Lift up your foot, shake off the earthy part of it

And run and run

As you'll be going round the earth and back in thousands of suns' time while upon coming back to the the starting line

this will have turned into a whole world for you.

But as you run or come back, don't let it touch that patch, that forever-untouched patch which people call the sky beyond the silver lining,

beyond the clouds, the same sky unaccepting of the earth's capacity to turn around in its wings

While all the while, the same old glowing but lined skin will understand that every wing has turned around the concept of crawling.

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trees with their trunks moving too deep into the ground,

or way up reaching further and further into a sky,

never quite understanding the sense of direction 

when they choose to exist as they lend themselves for people to reach

the sky they're made themselves of while digging into their earth.

Black, on white paper, on which the same people glue death to life.

the unfilled space of your love is the promise of

the future, that black hole of everything and every things,

the backup of what is to come, what was denied, 

what was, what is, what has always been,

never quite understanding why people struggle to get,

when they've already been on both the giving and receiving end when what is true is true

or else, they have never been.

Bigger limbs reach out of the sky-sized palms

succumbing to the lost reality of us humans

asking ourselves why being splendid does not

translate into a chosen kind of beauty, but into

beauty itself as nature never asks itself questions.

in the natural order of things,

You should have known better that

fighting for love can be less forgiving than fighting love

And then you take the experience, make something extraordinary out of it

in its pressed paperless taste of death mixed with life

On the other hand, all this fight has made you nothing less than love-worthy

A love that on the revolutionary ladder of the giving end calling for the receiving end 

has taught everyone and everything

That love exists.

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ties, unburnt loving raw connections

giving people the nudge to move stairless climbs into what others might call the impossible resistance to power.

Imponderable, he climbs the insides of the wrong stomach, rounded by taken [almost never given] pleasures.

Ceased to be more than more. Never the same.

Never before, always in the after.

The sun would weigh the lines on human faces. Of those that looked straight in, bowed under its power while slaving the land.

'The sun is only a reminder of what the night might do to the day,' he uttered in the liberating given [not taken] token of the pledge that we're on temporary grounds with every single earthen lock on the very life of his, theirs, hers, mine and yours.

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She got on the local train, settled for one seat, no one seated right next to her. Within seconds, she discovered the next seat was utterly splashed with dry mud stains. Next, on the other row of seats, an old man, a fisherman, an angler, with a handmade walking stick, eating some bread or pastry that got him into a sea of crumbs. No swordfish.

She wondered: could all these people be savage? Who could have left all the dirt behind on the seat next to her, had they been sitting with their boots on the seats, had they thrown their filthy bags on the seats, were they dressed in mud, had they carried all of it with the only intention to dump it on us?

She then remembered about another train journey when she admonished a no-more-than 16-year-old girl eating sunflower seeds and spitting the hulls onto the floor. The girl almost silenced returned an angry gesture of collecting them. She thought then and now she should have gone about it more smoothly and have educated her with more kindness. If only she had met the old man before the girl: she would have gently and easily struck up a conversation about art since the girl seemed to be an art student, reckless, rebellious, though, as one could see, and would have given him as a subtle but bad case example. The girl would have eventually caught on to it, would have been awakened to common sense, and so she would have collected them in no time and no anger. Perhaps. That's how things played out in her imagination. However, reality was rather hurtful. As hurtful as the sound of music coming undisturbed from a loudspeaker someone carried out in the back, the loud ring tones of either the phone calls or notifications, games, and then the voices of people answering their phones and revealing half of their lives in the space of five minutes.

With the book, which could have been a hook, on her lap, she kept on wondering. Could she be the savage, the one that didn't fit in? She felt people's common sense must have fallen victim to the lack of it. Just another sophism, she thought.

Two more anglers, a man and a woman, in their sixties, got on at the next stop, also fishing for likes on social media after they'd been on a fishing spree. The man was too kind to her. The woman insecure. She wondered if those two could be lovers, old as they were. Well, people seek love all their lives. If only it were true love, not the kind that fills empty spaces, but the one that fits in.

The gorge, the train was passing through while picking up passengers, was a place packed with all the stories anglers could tell, including the one of the same hobo taking the train as part of his distraction, as part of warming up in the cold weather by going on regular journeys. Some of the passengers knew him. Regulars. The man and the woman too. Maybe all the fishers on this route.

She fished for something in her bag. A piece of paper: 'Today I'm going to eat some fish. Boned, deboned. Won't matter.'

Credits for the photo and copyright belong to the podcast producer as part of her personal archive

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in the greens and reds and nothing in-between

in the paper tissues for tears after tears that soak spilt water making it one with them

in the blood nebulae that float magically in body tissues, broken, exploded into pieces, magnetically,

kinaesthetically suppressed in zero gravity - stop

As she'll slowly elbow waves with legs stuck up to the knees

rotating pyramid mountains upside down

in turquoise water sprints in the shape of unknown flowers at the mercy of another water - playfully

She'll slowly move, embrace, feel the sandy rocks crystallised through the mouths of winds

She'll 'belly-button' the sounds the bowels of the earth make while resting on the rest of the world.

She's been telling herself all this

Walking again, learning how to walk

with her old legs, old knees whose age no one could tell, still stuck,

with hearts still there with a pain greater than imagined, still felt, and minds still faltering

walking as if she was learning to fly as baby birds do

She will find peace.

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Intoxicated with untrusty behaviour. Possessed by all the people he had ever met.

The only memory he didn't burn was his mom's fine smile. His father? - She was so scared to be giving birth so young. Yet, there she was. - He cherished her courage, but then she blamed her for leaving the land and him when he needed her the most. Betrayal. He borrowed her then-cowardice and set off on the road to self-destruction.

Betrayed. Desire. Lust. Ego. Betraying. Himself. His true friend. And possibly love. He didn't do much. In fact, all he did was not try the impossible. Who would? Who could blame him? His lies, his concealment. Not even her. A force driven by love is indestructible. How many of you know that? She'd grappled with feelings of resentment, anger, hate long before she settled: she was no longer hurt, or damaged, or anything. Forgiveness doubled the force.

He was yet to learn that beyond despair, beyond self awaits the other. Their true beauty reflecting on you. He didn't have to grab [they're not opportunities, they're beings], or consume with hunger. He would have to learn to forgive and love himself beyond despair, beyond self. To aim out of the same fear. He will learn to give without getting anything in return. And give.

Love.

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through the dusty midsummer landscape

slipping past weary, unnoticed beauty,

dissatisfied, cynical.

The hopes of youth - ulcers arguing, speaking,

self-absorbed, not even noticing how stubborn.

On the crest of a hillock, the little creature

hurtled off into the forest: didn't bust, ran into, eyes closed, revived.

-through the thinly treed forest, a patch of dark-green grass-

Nestled its head between its forepaws, a shout:

if you hang around in this wilderness, you'll have to find your own way back.

No sound from the forest. Listened for another moment, lost in thought.

The sun set: for a moment afraid it would try to escape. It showed no sign of fear at all.

Alone in the forest, on a summer evening. Abandoned.

What does one usually do in such a situation?

gazed at the sunset's last road tenderly.

refreshed, contemplated mulling over

what had happened.

unplugged, peacefully the night forest didn't return even an echo,

splitting not a squeak:

"got to get back home right away".

This episode's cover photo credited to: https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/blue-oil-paint-strokes-textured-background_13462556.htm

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They dragged him out of the woods

when no one saw

when no one was there to stare.

Bogged down by no remorse.

Drowned out in the noises logging machines make

and that could have drilled open even a heart of stone.

If no one but them knew, conscience was more likely to feel clean.

At least, this is what they thought.

Tied to no mercy

the six feet of him:

he didn't have one mark, the one missing or buried,

he was not like those stallions with a marking on their foreheads

he had marks all over his body, tattooed by the elements,

the animals rummaging through meaty, fleshy layers resisting the biting frost,

sniffing with innocence husk-like carcasses, empty, void, yet succulent

at the crossing line

between

wild and tamed

where nothing ever stops as the spinning goes on

taking everything down to the last possible beginning

when ghostly worms crawl back as before into

their crafted hidings

where hierarchical dissolution

is part of the evolutionary ladder - not for them-

Because nature knows best.

No time left.

Be it the tree, the horse, the man

They all end up, or down.

This episode's cover photo credited to: https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/top-view-background-beautiful-white-grey-brown-cream-blue-background_13191135.htm

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The confession twirled over half of the city:

half-asleep, half-naked.

Half-truth.

It spiralled into whispers

we hear every night before we go to bed

with someone else, or no one.

It sank in so that sometimes I think I feel the ache of the water running through my body.

70% - 60% - 50%:

less water than in other bodies.

Half-empty, half-full.

It let the candle flames blow themselves out into a wish,

just as the fire, to taste them,

latched onto their greasy-bright light, dipped in its salty waters,

burning in the dark till

ashes tamed the whisper, embodied it, mirrored it, flickered with light.

And there, in the stillness of the room

fluttering in the darkness, I stole the breath

from the air and the night, their own light.

It's what I will be then.

https://www.littlebrown.com/titles/hannah-kent/burial-rites/9780316243902/#module-whats-inside

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https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/beautiful-shot-wind-turbines-cloudy-sky-eiffel-region-germany_9184578.htm

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• To some, evolution branches humanity out into existence.

• The hatchling of a dream: the perpetual movement of the species.

Miscarea permanenta a vietii: visul pe care ultima geana de netrezire, de somn il atinge ca si cum ar sparge coaja unui ou.

• Waiting: the non-movement of movement.

• The noise in the mind -short-circuit- the straight line in life.

• In nature, corpses rolling in raptors' eyes reflect the sky: tearing off the flesh, the sky's tearing up.

• The night moth's freedom is viscerally acute as you hold the moth in closed hands.

• He was his own everything, yet she is his lost paradise.

• To meet God, to introduce yourself to Him, you won't stretch out a handshake nor will you bow. You'll only lend ears and knees will bend. You'll be praying.

• Words can bless or curse you, therefore you can love or hate them.

• Sing to nature and it will sing back.

• It's not the story that binds two people; it's what binds the story.

• You pass by. He raps as you do. It seems to be about you. Dedicated. And, then he calls out your name.

• Seek it, know it, preserve it, spread its wings but nothing of your essence too thin!

• I collect, I recollect.

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/652819/the-art-of-patience-by-sylvain-tesson/

Credits for the photo: Personal Archive

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biting the skin off of the Earth.

Theirs, too.

Even the faintest trace of wind

is strong on those rosehips that pierce

the hand.

Holding it out and looking at it

punctured from place to place,

pain that says:

'No, this time is going to be different.'

As one wolf spider, a doting mother, carries its weight

They feel a tinge of regret.

Threefold blossoms - tenfold more than tenfold.

Photo credits: personal archive

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She can't speak for little boys, but she assumes for them it would be how many pairs of hands they were ready to exchange.

One for their mothers' wombs - the feathers of their intrauterine life - cool now, heated then. Another for their mothers' spine, around the waist and up, like ivy up the walls of long-held wishes, cooler, embroidered softly in a flipped reach for the neck, where another, in an embrace, like a tiny, two-sided necklace, would tip back, blindfold their mothers' eyes while growing ancient eyes on the back of their very palms, and cathartic ones on the front. Fingers, multiplied by two up to ten, would comb wavy into straight hair, and straight into wavy, or, in a glottal stop, would just be mesmerised by how wavy would stay wavy, and straight straight, how many other types of hair will go back and forth between being one or another, or just themselves, authentically themselves, untangling, untangling, untangling it, like any sacred melody, before leading the eyes, old and new, into foreseeing the intricate maze of weightless webs of womanly charms.

Hair textures, tints' metamorphosis into colours, thickness, styles, accessories - nothing left to chance. No length predetermined, changing all the time, historical stages of roots, follicles and shafts. An extension of the primordial dermis, smooth with caresses, but also furred with cuts and bruises of another past, her hair is ultimately the only memory left of the rare animal she was while growing up. Deep-rooted, pappus-like, sprouting florets blown by the wind, her hair has evolved over the span of zillions and zillions of seconds into the grey strands she can see now.

No scientist could possibly ever tell that evolving towards extinction can be called evolution, except for the greatest ones who have gained clarity in the perfection of life.

"I've been thinking about not dying my hair any longer" is the moment she has turned her own history on its head. The same head growing the same hair roots. Different colours, shades, textures, styles, accessories or no accessories.

People around her can swear they have heard a different kind of story. This one person, for example: " She had said she'd be back from her son's house by nine, but it was eleven, and soon it was midnight, without a word from her. I tried making her change her mind before going there, but I was met with fierce determination. She was going to tell him the only story he wasn't able to grasp after he had moved into adulthood. She looked dishevelled but convinced this time she had the right proof. Her white hair blowing in the wind..."

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A safer world pulled out

a cascade of lace, gentle blues, heavy reds

concrete telephone poles on top of

paper-cut telephones huddled together

A lightning-rod, distant holes,

the white skin of winking and crying lights

bobbing

distant

'there's more over here'

the lights of home, elegant but

two-dimensional and thick-skinned

perfectly obvious, faded pockmarks

on the cheeks of houses

like a melody growing taller

'Doesn't it feel, I dunno, special?'

I gazed toward the floating docks,

clusters of sailboats tied off to the dark, summer sea

'They withstand anything.'

Strips of colours twinkled all around

the sweat leaking off the summer night, 

the tight noises and the late breeze.

In no time, they started the descent and

I could see this layer, faint and tired, super quiet.

I just stuck out my hand to grab it:

'It's like picking grapes.'

'A “found poem” is one that is created using only words, phrases, or quotations that have been selected and rearranged from another text. '

https://www.facinghistory.org/resource-library/teaching-strategies/found-poems

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A seed, a bud, a leaf, a blossom - the tiniest possible

carries strong (still) the heart of the Earth

The feeble beating sounds of what is yet to come

Not long ago forgotten in the rooted belief

that what is once dead is dead.

While you're watering the perspective of one leaf,

another plant has lost it to the frost

because in your recklessness, you've entirely

moved past what death could bring

the realisation that the end is there when it's not.

You're likely to make more mistakes like this one

And then make some more, but you'll never lose

sight of what you've learned.

When the lessons learned teach you more

about life, you will give no advice.

You'll stop talking even to yourself

You'll stop listening to those thoughts telling you

not to listen

You'll just be here-now

With every new beginning

In mid-winter or early spring

in the awakening dawns of summers or

the changing golden leaves of autumn,

despite seasonal endings and beginnings,

in spite of any remembrance, memories, or deaths.

You'll live

As purely as life lives with all it lives.

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Listening to a story about burnt food and then getting into the kitchen with the confident air that this is no way going to happen to you today, not today, since you'll be extra cautious and won't leave the kitchen until the food is off the stovetop, would be enough to set you out for the cooking process.

I'm one of those people for who the food is a mere necessity but having the secret wish that I could one day know what being a glutton/gourmand feels like and what would be like if my taste buds blossomed and thrived on delicacies or if I whetted my appetite (for cooking) by feeding off TV food programmes or travelogues that focus on nutrition, diet, unusual and special recipes/food. As I was saying, food is there just to fill my stomach, to help me get ahead with matters of the heart and brain, to be read as the soul and the mind, since these two are the most important in the mere existence of someone like me.

All until food becomes a whole experience in which the smell and taste evoke more than a simple cooking process; they can actually take you back to a time you remember fondly. The whole food experience is in the hot bread you used to gulp down as a kid, as dangerous as it would be for your stomach, a danger that could be surpassed in intensity by the dirty hands with which you break its heel before getting on with the rest of the bread; it's when you cook with someone you love and the smell, the taste of that food will forever stay with you; it's when you help out you mom, whisking egg whites until stiff, chopping the veggies, washing the dishes as you go, listening to the advice she is always giving about how food should be cooked, ignoring it until you get older and realise you don't know how to cook this and that, yet remembering the moment clearly; it is in the ripe fruit, mature veggies, dry seeds and herbs that have taken in the sun, the soil, the rain, the wind, and some more. And some more...

I wonder if moms that cook daily for their families have time to stop and think about this. In this respect, we are probably the same, food is a necessity. However, moms might think cooking is a burden at times, and food a necessity, but their burden gets lifted when they see the happy faces and full stomachs of the family members and hear words of appreciation or requests for seconds (a second helping); the whole experience turns into joy and they refill their passion or creativity.

Back to my cooking experience or let's call it just a cooking day: I was there, the food was there too, but I burnt the garlic sauce; the crunchy garlic had a toxic edge to it; however, I decided I could still eat it. Later on, the apple pie turned out a disaster worth recording, which is what I have just done.

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A nonsensical story for which you'll have to use all senses, including the mind (admitting the mind is one of the senses).

The heart has a seat at another table looking closely while coming to its senses.

Co-authored with one of my best friends, whose sweet name is Adina: here's to you!

In the final hours of a perfectly fine timeline, no one would have expected such a future set out for us as the perfect end of a perfectly nonsensical life. In all its seriousness, life doesn't have a meaning. Not one you'd expect it to have. Life is worth living, no matter what. I'm quoting you. Yes, you. Any person alive and kicking, or bound to become one, like a new baby out of a mom's loving womb.

One day, we wake up as white as paper and as creased as a morning bed sheet or maybe our skin would be as white and creased as a morning bed sheet. It's still morning, we'd still have time to live it up when the bed is not the one we've slept in for years. It's a new one. It's a new room. It's a new dawn. You probably know this last line. If you don't, sing it and you'll know it.

Scones and crumpets, us, sat next to each other, sipping at a cuppa, pouring philosophy and fantasy into it instead of sugar and milk: two peas in a pod, warm clothes, hanging on the armchairs - the clothes, not the peas, or maybe the clothes on us, as, finally, you're skinny just as you've longed for all your life. As you will have known by now, life can treat you well and give you presents at the right moment; sandy beaches, wouldn't say no to shingle beaches, either, since the walking stick would still be one 'foot' closer to the waves and the sand would not be a grabber and stuff it down its throat. A sand glass.

The smell of salty water and medicine...You can get cranky. The daisies are still not there because my nieces are late. We are not. Rebelling against time, we're still compliant more than we'd wish. We're not late. We've never been. We'd still wander dreamily in possibilities. This is what the future is.

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I've got my eyes from you...

As you're lacking full vision now, I would give you mine

if I could force it out of me, if I could truly give it up for you, if I didn't alter the 'yes'.

II

After the rain, the river rhythmically pumps

soul into the city:

Has crept inside its mouth hissing [from the tangled roots], skirting around,

growing occasionally downstream, lurking at the borders, drifting upstream.

All the blues on Earth smell like the sky and the ocean

Woven, swum, walked in the hardly spoken lute songs:

High is the hum towards the points of the compass, a little bit more to the east.

Tattooed sharply in the water droplets that fill the air, moving on faster, among devouring, sleepless monsters

of underground raves, those empty voices that make it clear:

no one you can think of is on that path, the only one left.

I

Yet, you know better: the city's got its soul, its promise.

Your lot knew it already: you were the child of the ever-after.

They didn't tell you, they didn't want you to know.

They were too scared.

'I'll give it back to you': the vision.

http://www.breakingtheglassslipper.com/2020/02/20/five-questions-with-rym-kechacha/

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48997958-dark-river

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https://www.freepik.com/photos/water

Water photo created by wirestock - www.freepik.com

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The Utopia in Dystopia

(The) promises we make to our children

Are the ones we ve already broken to ourselves

By and by

You ll get used to it.

You ll scream it and fist it that you won t

Chase time override decisions

swearing blind that the sweat of the days when they wake up under the bite of the nights

will gauge life the thick on the ground

And end up

Shovelling the bones unearthing them

When

The body turns to dust and you start hearing the greatest scariest fleshiest

decomposition symphony the largest dimension of a life lived

in

the moment or otherwise

When

Hands joining in raising quickly belonging

an old man and a woman nakedly true to something unanimously unique

diverse uniqueness

Young

When

Two mirrors double split same wall same people same roof

Same reflection? Do they ever swap places?

Is it themselves Or is it themselves?

Mosaic dynamics counter-tops overflow surfaces

Embedded

Sleeping

Slipping away from it

Sheeting...

Theory precedes authority and the little split in it is the only one honest

Entirely

This house is too old and sickened by its landmarks

When is Now

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'The' is the Missing Word

Old and young, white hairs grow wrinkles on the skin of the animal. Under my eyes-hallowed caves. Raw face time, locked state, and memories are seriously forgetting the past. I choose to wonder at the one. Change? A rogue promise hides breaking, sealed up a sleeve, stopped to become another; a pencil's mark pulls the heart of this sheet of paper, scraping at its loose end.

Fear bears consequences in silence: nook over flowers - green, red, orange. Risks and uncertainties are a lifetime spell of a stranger.

Despite established development, openings emerge.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/prose-poem

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Hollowing its cave-like mouth, in deep-hanging crevices

Grass on, and under it,

scattered dandelions, whose severed heads are a song to their scaffold-stems

lying like sacrificed soldiers on the battlefield.

Moving on

to the sight of the second and third squadron

of white-haired, giraffe-necked brothers-in-arms that stand at the lions' gate

in an inter-galactic war.

This field is open to more than one ending.

The hunter - out and about.

A sheepish walk, more of a sneak,

In a world soon populated by uncaring beings that could get their hunter down in one shot:

betrayal of the underprivileged, caged in domesticated looks, trapped to no escape.

Those loyal to death, and, admittedly, to each other, will continue to sing

-As black-feathered as they are-

And while this (living) flow has the mind of a thousand breaths and the soul of a gasp,

once the world has come to its middle ground, still green, still young,

it will die into a new one!

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Wrapped up in her full-roundness, a non-existent curtain of night clouds draped over, right at the sunset point, where the human eye meets the horizon (after removing the rest of the sky, in an out of sight, out of mind approach), a full-grown new moon, well-behaved, as one could tell by her decision to glare and silvery shine on the dreams and desires of the ignorant, oblivious earthlings, is scanning the whole world. Not all her countless sisters have been the same: some too shy, hiding behind their cloud guards, some arrogant and overbearing, some impersonal...

Between dusk and dawn, people are likely to wonder at the weird ball, woven by light, what it will be like this time.

Which eyes will see what?

You, as curious as those earthlings, look down without looking down on them. You let some see your face, allowing them to brag about it to others. However, you care the most about their warmth, and rejoice at those who smile at you so that you go from dim to bright in your moonbeams. On the other hand, you wish you had them too. The feelings. That's why, you sometimes let them think there's a rabbit that lives in the moon, or a whole different world for the domineering and conquering type of people so that you keep their fascination ongoing. And yours too.

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A walk down the memory and imaginary lanes

I don't know anything about deep or 'shallow' sea fishing and don't think I ever will (firsthand, I mean) unless the mountain in me takes a plunge into one sea. I've recently read about low-tide fishing with its tarred twine, fish traps, fishing nets, outcrops, bladder vraic (most probably, more commonly known as bladderwrack, vraic being seaweed from the Channel Islands), the prawns or shrimps, lobsters, conger eels, razor shells, and other fish or marine animals. Boats have their lures, too. Rowing, skimming, feathering, and sculling altogether still make no sense in my mind but they do stir my imagination, get my feet itchy, tickling my curiosity while oozing adventure.

Although river fishing is no more familiar to me than sea fishing, rivers are. I remember my father recounting once how he would explore the bottoms of rocks in his village river, looking for trout, joined by searching parties of kids of all ages, in somewhat cold waters; however, the joy of searching and capturing the fish far outweighed the slight numbness in their feet. His experience becomes a bit mine and is also the closest I've ever come to trout fishing.

And, thus, the movie "A River Runs through It" has popped up in my mind (not the more classic The Old Man and the Sea, although that could make the subject of another episode), a movie that revolves around a river, fly fishing, and a family in Montana, adapted from Norman Maclean's book with the same name. There are so many great quotes from both the book and the movie that I'm going to stop at the one that gave its title.

"Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."

Shall I not say that at that moment he had reached perfection? He matched his strength up to that of the river. Pure beauty. Otherworldly beauty.

What's left of fishing is a man. In the quest for themselves. A man in the quest for another.

Reference sources:

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105265/

https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/49325401-a-river-runs-through-it

Sidenotes: man = a person of either sex

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If Bluebirds Existed...

Credits for the idea to the Korean movie When the Weather is Fine

http://asianwiki.com/When_the_Weather_is_Fine

If Bluebirds existed, they would be the sunset with a golden halo in between dark blue wings, a stratified sunset launching thoughts as rockets; they would have the shape of cloud castles, up an imaginary mountain, on top of our realities, the real mount, that of the light coming in through the peephole, unannounced, breaking the darkroom into specks of light.

If they existed, we wouldn't be looking for them, as no one would look for snow in spring, and yet, here it is.

If Bluebirds existed, you wouldn't see their wings battering the air in a creamy sound as everything would be brought to a standstill.

If they existed, you wouldn't set off to find the feathers floating down on the whole of you, casting a spell.

If Bluebirds existed, they would look nothing like the real ones.

If they existed, you would feel the cold, the dark, the pain, but all that wouldn't deepen.

If Bluebirds existed, you could be sitting outside, mulling over an upsetting thought, disheartened, but the hot mug would do it for you, as a friend joins in and you look together at the pouring rain or falling snow.

If they existed, the falling petals will remind you once again that they are as beautiful as in full bloom, only a bit sadder.

If Bluebirds existed, you would feel no longer lonely when another lonely soul feels you.

If they existed, a humble background would matter not, as long as it soars.

If Bluebirds existed, you would no longer wonder, you will know, and if that were too much, you'd only believe it.

If they existed, the choices that you've made would make you no less happy as you carry on... loving the wound and those who inflicted it, in self-forgiveness, as the Wise Great Fathers say.

If Bluebirds existed, the frozen cherry blossom petal would bear the heaviness of a world we don't know.

If they only existed...

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Love is born late

As the sun rises, and so it sets upon

the darkest nights.

Love is born late - out of despair

broken hearts

missed opportunities

unforgivable sins

accepted truths

transfixed returns

unlikely repairs.

You don't have to reason with it

The heart has its own reasons.

Love is born late

When no one expected it any more

as everything seemed doomed.

Love is born late

As crows join in the singing choir of birds

As one boy tames the stars

Oh, gentle sunshine!

Love is born late

As someone turns the doorknob

And smiles

As they're not angered or in disagreement with themselves -

concession for the sake of affection

Love is born late

When you get a call at mid-night

Telling you to wake up.

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Peach Boy (if you haven't heard the tale of Momotarou, now would be the best time to look it up) would be happy to know there's an Onion Girl out there unless he was too afraid she would make him cry. Peach Boy was born in the Land of the Rising Sun a long, long time ago, in immemorial times, while Onion Girl comes from another time, from our modern times when anyone has their own super stories, Instant stories, followed by countless Instant friends, who never get to peel the onion. However, Onion Girl is all about layers waiting to get peeled off, hence the name - Don't get confused that she's a girl, or that we'll be talking about a story when boy meets girl, and you'd be in for some romance, when, in fact, we're not. - You may call her an atypical girl of these times, as her layers, tightly surrounding one another, not airtight, breathe and let you breathe. Let you wanna take a break from all the stories you've been wide-eyed for, just because they exist. She will teach you about the top layer as the most important one, as she slowly or rapidly opens up when she befriends you, or, crudely put, you got befriended by her. You might end up with one layer in your hands and want to make a run for it, but you know you've still got time, as another layer comes off in your palm. And, then, another, and another. You feel like crying, just because she made you a part of those layers, now lying barren in the bin. Still wanna run, but get drawn closer. She cautiously let you move forward until you run to return to your stories, to continue to be a part of your super world. You'd feel lonely with only those friends, but as you befriend her, you'd almost feel like Little Prince (go look him up too). If you haven't already found at least one Onion Girl or several of the kind, then this story is for you.

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Everything floats in a solitary act, and if I were to give an example at hand, putting pen to paper is a solitary act; writing, scripting, or deciding to put yourself out there is a solitary act - an urge, [for some people] a calling, or just a way to benefit you in one way or another...all till someone comes along. Still, the solitude remains, hardwired to accompany the human soul, while the conscious or unconscious sharing takes it in, in an embrace.

Solitude at its lowest and rawest is loneliness, soaked in its fears, expectations, desires, longings for another, for something, disappointment, pain, etc. - human nature in its purest, most vulnerable form. 

It also feels more lonely if you cautiously don't venture into straightforwardness.

https://jaypsong.blog/2011/11/29/to-the-daffodil-by-chung-ho-seung/

Photo attributed to https://picjumbo.com/a-road-after-winter/

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Couscous happens without too much thinking, carrying the seeds that you need to water at boiling point. You'd say it's easy to happen - if it happens. The trouble starts when it doesn't. I've heard it gets all gooey, or all dry, it lingers unfulfilled, a purpose in the back of your mind, waiting. Have you seen someone know how to wait when action is required? There're so many facets to waiting.

The first one is the ready-made encounter, set against a backdrop of humility: when the water meets the crushed grain, which has to be crushed. Even then, as crushed as it is, there's no guaranteed success as these two have to solidify the commitment, the connection. It's the waiting time, slowly progressing to its result. They could accept third parties, small or big, but it's their initial bond that matters in the process. Then, the second phase begins, a phase unclear to many, entirely choice-made, responsible, taste driven. The one, in which they bear the consequences in making one of the most unpredictable life treats. The stage that can never let you second-guess it...

What comes after is not only unclear but also unknown at this point, depending on the leading, outweighing connections couscous has made so far.

If it doesn't, it doesn't - audacious moves need timing, a hint of chance, a helping hand, and the belief that if it doesn't, it doesn't mean it didn't in other meaningful ways. And wait! Just you wait! If it doesn't, it does.

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"Time is a chip off the old sacred block of Time, having a more linear structure, carrying that DNA as an impossible long-distance runner, the one that gets in the way of everything and 'ages' backwards by falling back into its sacredness.

Time is the precious nothing between you and me, two anonymous beings united in the sweet regret that no more is left when all that's left is you in me and me in you. Time is. Time toes the finitude line with its eyes on the Infinite.

Time is a friend, a silent bystander, a slap on the face, a mere shadow that follows you into the unknown, lying about tomorrow, forgetting about yesterday. Time simply is.

I don't have the tools to measure it as Time is. Even when you have run out of it. Stubborn enough, it matters despite being immeasurably absurd in its passing. 

Time has come."

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"Lazily, a cat carries itself through the streets of a small town, full body length, going from one end of the town to the other. This town is elongated, following the course of its two streams, of its two-dimensional character, made up of the lofty mountain cap and the underground solitude of soil, shrouded in pit coal secrecy, deeply buried underneath. Someone called it a dim town, where only shady people could dwell, adding 'that would be its charm', what would make it all the more interesting to the ones left to go back in time or dig out its past, or appealing to those willing to go for some bits and bobs of humanity, left in the suburbs of the world as we know it today. 

It's just before dusk, just before the council is about to meet at the lunar rock, on top of a garage, as shady as the town's inhabitants. No one can call them residents as they are no longer here, no longer have a say or the drive to turn things around.

Jesper, the cat, who carries not only his body but also his dignified name, doesn't know about tonight's meeting. He's more worried about the full moon ahead, about the long neck staring over his shoulder, about the shadows that will grow bigger, and the rooftops, hot, in a night like this.

A cat has made its way to the other corner, absent from this world.

No other paw prints left, of dogs-not long ago, the dominant animals in town, or of any other animals, daring enough to survive the mystery. Only cats.

(...)"

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I didn't think I'd be using this poem, written on another occasion, to say goodbye to a dear friend.

(...)

It's perspective. Though. Going back

to that touch of a hand.

Nothing silky about it: linen cloth,

earthen sheet, solid mud,

And, then, the knocked off, cracked

parchment of this soil. Or that. And a handful smell of.

Remember the old, the leftover. The lineage.

She did. She carried. You and her(s).

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Life and other things.

Who will sail them?

Row, row, row your boat... or set sail. 

Let's be sober about it and not get high on false hopes, or else we'll just have to sail close to the wind. Let's face it: we're between the devil and the deep blue sea, it all depends on the perspective, although this time, we won't have one or the other, it's not either going down with the ship or abandoning it. We are all going down with it unless Elon Musk sends us to the moon and back, in fact, no, to Mars and unlikely back, he doesn't love us as deeply as to the moon and back, for sure, and some of us wouldn't even want to dip their feet in uncharted waters. Some only have Greta for now. I, like her, not unlike her, will go for the latter, the deep blue sea, but not for the same reasons as I'm a far cry from what's she up to, and nowhere in hell going to afford it, the deep blue sea, I mean, although I like its hue. It will also go well with the clear, blue skies of today, or maybe tomorrow, or the day after many tomorrows, the skies not many people look up to see or wonder at any longer. Maybe we're done discovering realities unless they're virtual.

My only real interest, when it comes to boats, goes to lifeboats: insiders, pathfinders, SOS listeners, soul ninjas, resilient standbys, silent reserve players/benchwarmers - [Who could find so much warmth: a cat miaowing in disdain meets the look on his face that seems to be saying: I still like you. It doesn't matter if you like me back or not.] Declaration of love. Lifeboats. Make sure you'll find one, you'll need one!

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Origami în doi

stând în picioare putea vedea mai bine totul: petala irisului din faţă, bambuşii din spate, profilele bine croite ale broaştelor. auzul îi deveni mai fin, ascultarea mai adâncă.

stătea nimerit de bine pe bancul de hârtie. cu aripile întinse şi cu forma de cocor japonez, privea la om. îşi scoase picioarele, şi schiţă un zbor din mâna celui la care privise.

existenţele de hârtie îi dădeau încredere. uşurinţa plierii, posibilitatea întoarcerii la începuturi pe urmele trasate. îşi examină mâinile. păreau de hârtie.

 Origami for Two

Standing. A whole different perspective: the iris petals in front of him, the bamboo stalks behind, and the profiles of frogs as if painted by the hands of an artist.

All ears, the grasp was even more profound.

Stuck in the paper riverbed, full wingspan, in the shape of a Japanese crane, it gazed and gazed at the standing man. Freeing its legs, it attempted flying from the man's hand.

Paper-made existences would fill him with confidence. Folding seemed easy: you could trace every fold back to the beginning. He examined his hands closely. They looked and felt like paper.

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"And if the stars shine on the pond 

And light its sombre shoal,  

It is to quench my mind's despond 

And flood with peace my soul. "

And If...

[https://www.estcomp.ro/eminescu/andneagu.html]

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