My head bowed down…

Somewhere deep and unexpected there is tenderness in letting go. The roots, one by one, snap as the once living is torn and moved to places more plenteous than before. The moss serves as a resting pillow for the tired head. Leaves and meanders embrace the weary body that gently succumbs to the call of the earthy ground. With a silent hush, all that held on tight must release the grip and let the winter wonders take the lead. Snowdrops breathe fresh droplets of dew into the resting eyes of the beholder. Lilacs and honeysuckles lie buried under the solemn turf, but come springtime they will fondly fiddle with the beauty resting amongst them and cover the dreams with yellow and lilac powders of magic. Just wait and they will appear.

Useless feet have now been replaced with eternal wings. Unbearable pain has been speared by everlasting love. Comfort of the old and the wholly unforeseen entwine as they guide the soul through the gigantic doors of Heaven. One glance at a time. The filthy and corrupt, the evil and careless, the lies like balls of dirt rolling on the street, are erased from the imminent memory. Glowing is the way ahead. The beauty far outweighs the dread. His steps now float: far from the memory of falling, of breaking to pieces, of unwillingly withering away.

Sit here and promise me it will never be like this again. Whisper in my ear that you know something more beautiful awaits. Stroke my snow-white hair, carelessly resting on the pillow and smile with your eyes so I know that you will travel with me. I fear to go alone. I fear to go alone without you. But how can this magnificent place, this kingdom of friends past reunited, this everlasting beam of radiant hope, be anything than reassuringly reminiscent of home? Speak in endless words, for now is when time stands still. The palms of both hands now young and pink are turning steady towards the warmth. We have been waiting for you.

The lamp is burning low, the snow is softly falling. The chains are broken, pain no longer rules. The body, the heavy and burdensome, now roams as the shackles have been rid, yielding to unimaginable freedom. The Sun warms the lovely cheeks; the stars keep the memories sweet. Think of us when you sing. Think of us when you dream.

Farewell dear one, may your journey be safe…

Gentle January

As alarming and irreversible as the phenomenon of global warming may be, undoubtedly there is something subversive about the irregular temperature patterns manifesting these days. Indescribably, an almost naughty and mischievous notion, that the Sun can have such unparalleled freedom to roam this part of the globe this time of the year. The forbidden fruit has indeed been touched. So as concerned and weary as we all are of the changes that present nothing positive for our future, we still stand by the freakish weather and hail it as more pleasant than bitter frost or flaky droplets of water. And what can winter bring that we have not already seen anyway?

This current state of weather has become yet another thing that I don’t understand in this life. Like how I find it hard to understand Bulgakov. Would I ever make a deal with Satan? If I loved another or if I loved the creation enough, would that drive me to such extents as selling my soul? I also find it hard to decipher Milton. What good is freedom of choice when there’s really no choice at all? Still, I shred the words of these and many other great masters, literary giants, in the hope that some of their knowledge and wisdom and sensitivity about the world will clench onto my susceptible brain. If not - this of course remains to be seen luckily so I don’t have to confront the harsh reality just yet – then I’ve spent much time reading pages which have seldom made sense to me. Is it enough to feel what the author is writing about? To glide over the actual words and skip to the part where all that remains is certainty about the tone, the mood, the spirit?

However cruel or abstract life is, it’s worth talking about the points which unsettle us all. Or about the parts that make universal sense. Or things that never make sense to anyone else but you. But me. The sun and the moon, the wind and the clouds come to play their lovely hand, leaving us all gasping with fright, foreseeing the disasters that our children will have to bear. Disasters which might wipe every living thing off this planet. Then Bulgakov won’t matter and the archaic verse of Milton won’t matter. I won’t matter and my confession of not understanding these literary classics won’t matter. But until then, I feel I have a moral and intellectual obligation to at least attempt to come to terms with the despairing human character that unveils itself on pages of books, on streets, in front of my very eyes.

This month is no different to any other. An unexpected song starts playing and it whisks me back to countries and to secretly kept years. To feelings and friends who I never had but still somehow forgot. This winter so far may have been gentle but its poison is odourless and colourless. The still river may reflect the towering bridge above it on a clear sunny morning, but in reprise the day will come and it will show no mercy. I see no real reason or cause to plan.

The present is all we have, this mild and unusual winter month. Onto bigger chunks of literature that will lead me into more confusion, sinking every ambition I may ever have to deeper ground. Seeing a better version of ourselves in the eyes of the one who says real love is always enough. Seeing nothing but a blur when it comes to the road ahead. Hoping that the hazy, opal reflection will be taken far, far away. Then comes the end, swiftly and silently like always, like always.

I’m learning to love these words fully

As if it was some heavy duty physical work, I roll my sleeves up and sit with abdominal muscles tight, waiting on an idea. I can hear the mischievous, mocking laughter. I can hear in the distance a tone that aims to discourage at all possible angles. I throw my toxin ridden body between the timid frailty of the unspoken words hiding in the dark and the power which aims to sweep across the mind the size of a continent. I try to hold back the centrifugal force to let the shy sincere thought venture outwards from within. The ability to tame the magnificent and nurture the weak is a task set before hardly pardoning the coy.

I know these things should be heard. Ringing clear everywhere but in my head, I still try to carefully choose every instant to have meaning. But the burden, I wish for only a beautiful man to see. Please let me try one more time. With almost unblemished certainty I can say that I know now where I went wrong. I know why you never enjoyed the words that laid themselves bare in front of you. Would you be more comfortable with simpler ideas? Allow me to untie the knots that appear in every paragraph. Stand firm so the muddled confusion does not turn your attention towards the chaos but rather more vigorously attains the notion inside you that reading is eventually beneficial. Pay no heed to words that are used as calligraphy to decorate the page. They make lustrous figures surface whilst covering the void of an idea.

Tonight, I can see the stars. Not a well lit sky, but enough to spot Jupiter or Mars. But I understand if you would rather not be reminded tonight of the vulnerability, the uncanny disarray that shows itself evident. I rest my useless pen for the night. I will try to shine less light on me and withdraw towards the back. I will try to build a pedestal for words which will celebrate ideas and not one failing creator’s excessive need to bask in unwilling glory. I may succeed. I may even succeed.

I’m learning to love these words fully.