Tied to me

Throw down a rope, a sturdy rope that can hold this reckless hope. Tonight you shine like no other. Tonight I want to be tied to you. I would bend to unload the burden, to hide from your innocent eyes the many evils with which I near you. Blistering hands hold the line that connect me to you. But then again, you know. Dearest sombre man of many moons, throw down a rope that can save this humble heart. That can lift the adventurous out of these lands of waste.

I want to be changed from the shadow in the tune.
Like water rushing over us, the tide pulls from the moon.

Your endless dark, scare only the weak. May those who stood out of line learn that the only way to know the truth is through your constant star. I boast no particular talent, yet the beam I feel upon my fair skin in the darkest night teaches me to see. Then those who wait far behind have a guiding light. I now know how to secure my life to your pull. How to soak in your light. How to pass on the teachings of your many visits to our lively scenery. The rope lays still untied.

I call this my garden, where sweet, reckless hope resides. Hope, that floats until it find its anchor. Day and night, labouring to harness this fickle notion. The moon stays unmoved, only heeding to the call of the tide. Then it moves and with it, you and I grab the rope to be near. In the vicinity of the magnificent barren landscape. No other force has such pull. No other force can sway masses of water out of its bed. Then you and I move with the swaying of the moon. When I find the dangling knot, I clench my useless fingers around it and wish to be pulled ever nearer to my sweet, reckless hope. Ever farther from you.

Tame these weights my master of astrology. Tame them so I can be pulled, away, to you. There are many hearts beside mine that wait for the waters to quiet, for the rope to appear. Time nears but the particulars fade. Once they have faded I no longer know how to carry you home. The glowing moon shines like any bright sun. Tonight it shines brighter than ever before. So thrown down a rope, for we want to escape. Escape the burden we have been laden with. And then stay tied to me so I can float above the land I once loved. Sail me around the parts I have missed, but never let me untie myself from the journey I now willingly undertake for an eternity. You and I, my constant moon, we shall see the good and bad and learn from each wicked heart the truths about the human spirit. Then you and I, my constant moon, we will call for the end. With bleeding hearts we will quit our travels and stay forever tied in the ether.

Then and only then can you stop your pull.
Then and only then can you part with the tide.

My Treasure, My Words.

If it weren’t for you, my words, I would be a passenger drifting through the dark night. I would spin directionless down the slippery slope of life. If it weren’t for your empowering assurance, I would have already given heed to the gravity which pulls at my heart. But I stand in the middle of an empty field, breeze rushing through the tips of my finger, the sun forcing my eyes to close at its might, confident of the solitude and loneliness. Confident of the grace with which each vain attempt brings me closer to some sort of enlightenment. Never have I been sure. Never can I be sure. Never do I want to be sure. The beauty in each word remains by the ambiguity to conquer. To command and  conquer. To rule and subject to. To stay silently in the shadows and watch from the sideline as each well placed word hits the bull’s eye.

I am half a person without my words. They clad me, protect me, empower me. I hide them from the evils of the unforgiving world. Only rarely are they allowed to face the harsh critics. I am responsible for every word I set out into the world, for they can build walls, cross oceans, bring water to deserts of sand and rock. They can pain and heal, have the power to create and destroy. We live in peaceful tranquility my words and I. It’s seldom silent or boring. It’s mostly loving, at times fearful and doubtful, but with each night passing cleared of the hasty despair of the cruel day before. We watch the sunset over hope street and hold onto each other until the next time there is reason to surface.

We nurture this dream, my words and I. The dream that cannot ever become a reality for in the process it would break arms, necks and hearts. It would maim the soul. So with all our efforts, my words and I, we nurture this dream. We stay intertwined, locked in sorrow and regret, but never allow anything to come between the sacred movements of creation. My words are mild mannered and well tamed. They long not for the bright lights of fame, only want to fulfill their destiny of silently repenting, preaching, guiding the unsuspecting reader. Together we weave webs to channel the ideas, to gently nudge each pair of eyes laid on our masterpiece towards all we know to be true. We don’t shout from the rooftop. We don’t wear ornaments that glitter or shine. We don’t call on ambivalence without purpose. We don’t aim to be anything more than what we are and in that we humbly remain.

If it weren’t for you, my words, I would be lost to the world. I would fall after each step, cry after each battle lost. I would hide like a hermit and let all moments pass me by. Without you, my words, I would never be sure. With you, my words, I can never be sure. But you help me and for that I will indefinitely stay indebted to you. Thank you. And then it hits. How would I know if this was it? How would I know for sure? How can I let you take the lead and how could I not let you lead me to wherever we need to get to together? If it wasn’t for you, my words, I would not be who I am today. If it wasn’t for you, my words, I would sit here empty and broken. If it wasn’t for you, my words, I would never know this much love. I could never give this much love.

The Shrouded Secrecy of Others

I am broken to little pieces but you see a whole.
I never knew how to do but did none the less.
I cover my body with lies to show a truthful soul.
I hate the way I look but spend hours trying to make you like me.
I seldom believe I can make it through the day but hold diplomas to say I am the best.
I don’t trust anyone around me but pretend to confide in strangers.
I pray without faith.

I am empty inside but I teach how to enrich the soul.
I am a recluse always surrounded by people.
I lied that I enjoyed your company.
I was happy to see that you were not doing better than me.
I broke your heart out of boredom.
I say I’m happy but I’ve never really been.

I am unsure if I ever wanted the life I have.
I gave up on the truth already.
I am reckless only when people are watching.
I still try to justify my decisions.
I am weak to change but dictate my terms to others.
I don’t believe in compromise but force it upon those I supposedly love.

I cheated on everything that mattered.
I can’t change but preach of a white washed soul.
I favour violence but I’m afraid in the dark.
I said you glow like the sun, I lied.
I know it was my fault but spend years arguing it never was.
I blame others to escape from the burden of responsibility.
I never said anything I meant; only what you wanted to hear.

I am glad I can’t have children but pretend to be crushed when others are present.
I fear the future but say I don’t.
I always knew I could never succeed but was too proud to quit.
I admit defeat only when it’s too late.
I pushed you away in the hope that you would come back.
I still want someone to show me how life’s done.
Saving you was an accident.

I don’t love you.
I know that you know.

You can make it better by blowing in my ear.
Can you blow until I disappear?

Kiss Each Other Clean

With your timid fingers lock the secrets that lie in each breath we took until today. I can only give a frail glance, turn around for one last time. That moment saw us weep with honest disbelief. Never would I want to change that moment for any other. You held me, for such a long time, you had me.

Then the gruesome fight took its hefty spear and pierced the grip between you and me. Loosened from your side I found myself alone. Brave and loyal, I fought so that all we believed in would regain its sense. My limbs went numb, my lips were silent, but I saw in the distance, far ahead, the shadow that turned out to be the prophet of the dead. Not out of need but want, I marched on.

That grave injustice which you did not deserve. That immense pain which ripped through your heart. Then that soothing sound calmed the frightful days. Whispers laid before you like fresh flowers from a dewy spring meadow. Just lightly touched by the sun’s tender rays. The gloomy sky held one patch of clear blue, enough to fit one person. How will you let me in? Wounded from the fight, fearful of the days to come, fumbling after the winter dark. I miss your hands, they were true to me.

I fear I will never be loved as well as I was loved by you. The constant carer. You loved not with a vivid love, not with colours or shouts. Not with dreadful heights or abysmal lows. Not with gold or silver, not with night or day. Our inexperienced love tried to hide each day. Sometimes I found it only by the afternoon, some other times it was there all along, in broad daylight for all to see. We both gave, we both lost, we both will always have. Still I fear that I may never be loved as well as I was loved by you.

I grew older, now I know pains I could not imagine before. I have to learn to seek the truth again. I know which way is back. My bag is bigger, lighter. I carry with me the days when nothing happened, still you were there. I carry nights that were unkind. I carry places that made my heart bigger. Strangers who appeared true. I carry instances that moved me. Tearful mornings when great loss was upon me. Years when I was silent and you talked endlessly. I carry pain that forever took a part of me. I carry many faces who have been good to me. Sounds that are heavenly and can never be hindered by any earthly woe.

Mostly I carry love that is on loan to me.

The Way I Lie

For the hopeless days to pass quicker. They silently whiz by. These lies are not alien or torturing. They are not evil and are not born out of vicious intent. These lies are soothing and comforting. They are hopes so distorted. These lies curl up to me, shiver at the cold and become giggling children in the warmth. With storm, rain, snow outside, they find shelter in winding around the hot radiator, the pipes zigzagging through the apartment. They find home in a place I have invited them to live in. We have been friends, they have been my confidantes. But not without price does this friendship come, this kinship in hardship. Not without the loss of innocence do these lies stay comforting the soul. They demand a part of me, leeching onto the susceptible bits, the parts of life I want different, long for to be changed. The power I have given up. I have placed it in the hands of these lies I choose to believe in. There are cold winter days when I feel like a shell, a puppet held by strings. My lies command my each and every move until they know me safe back within the four walls we have made our lives in. We have built our world in. Hanging between my darkest fears and dearest hopes.

Alone is easiest to lie. This is when the lies most confidently appear, manifest themselves in the full light. Unafraid of the crippling blow of reality or the outside world. Teasing they show their snow white teeth as they rip the pink skin off my heart. Watch it beat until I kill it with lies. Watch me lie until I leave a void behind. But they whisper. They murmur in a constant hush. They grow in confidence each and every passing day. Venture outside, on the other side of the front door. Down the corridor. Sliding down the flight of stairs until they reach the street. Nobody stops them. They are invisible to everyone else but my hands are bound by the sweet illusion, my own lies, my own confidantes and assassins. I depend on them just as much as they depend on me. I long for the still warmness of my apartment. I long for the solitude I broke by embracing these wretched lies.

I know how it ends, I even know what comes next. I still saw you there with me. There we were, a happy two. No lies, nothing but me and you. I saw our future, the mundane, expectable life. The two that would multiply. Then the lies could be stopped, could be contained and banished back into the pipes they so adore, purr when they wrap themselves around. You could help me. Or is that a lie? That I could love you well? Not with anger or revenge would I depart with the lies but with a rapid, almost astronautic speed I would forget. Forget the existence of, forget the choking grip of, forget the burning clench of, my lies.

Who created you? Was it I? Why do you fight so hard the real emptiness? Why does it hurt you? Just stay for now. Expect no threat from the outside, all is calm on the other side. Stay and enjoy the warmth, the company I can offer. Stay and make me believe that when the time comes I will be able to forget you with an astronautic speed. Promise you won’t outstay your welcome. Promise you won’t break that precious part of me. Promise you will leave the heart intact. Then I might call you again, my lie. My life.

Singer songwriters always wear chequered shirts

Because it’s homely and comfortable. Because it’s soft and comforting. Because the truth that leaves their lips pierces their own and their listeners hearts, so the clothing must remain comfortable. The songs hurt when they are born and hurt throughout their lives. Each time they are re-sung there is blood dripping on the inside. The words enslave their creator and the notes bind the hands of the master who conjures them. Just as the poor troubadour would learn to make peace with the pain of the song, a sudden wave of hurtful memories arrive on a freshly tuned guitar string. And then the chequered shirt remains the only comfort, a piece of home far away from home. For the job must be done, the songs must be written and sung. They must find the ears of those who will heal from them, even if they slowly kill the one who made them, who sings them. Night after night, the worn out soul, the one who rips old wounds open, deserves at least a comfortable shirt on his back. On her back.

Then there is the void. The companion who travels with the lonesome artist. Only in darkness, only in solitude will the murmurs be heard and the soul filled, the hands in motion, the instrument in full bloom, the words in ecstasy, dancing around the notes. Only then will the songs be born. And with the painful birth will the void disappear. Then they get ready, the artist and the words, the notes and the memories, the feelings and longing, to show others of their existence. To show that never are they alone. Only the creation desires solitude, then the beast becomes hungry for fame, light, audience and applause. The beast mars the soul of the artist from the inside, but wants to be let go, to swim in the joy of attention. And with that duality does a singer songwriter choose a chequered shirt for his back. For her back.

These boys and girls, with hearts full of love and songs full of forgiveness embark on journeys each performing night. Very few I take with them, but mostly it’s their songs, their instruments and their shirts who know exactly how one night is different from the other. They are the ones who are there when the new adventures take place. They are there to accompany and witness, to then demand a new addition to the gang. They are there to love and to hurt. And each coming night, with these shirts, these boys and girls make the burden of the world a little lighter. That’s why a singer songwriter always wears a chequered shirt, it reminds them of the responsibility and the weight to the word home.

Shortcomings.

Mankind, riddled with unmerciful flaws, dents in the human spirit which cannot be mended or healed. Carrying forever the burden of this, our imperfect souls. Realising that goodness is only an intention. Bowing with humility before the uncorrupted spirit of the newborn child. Yearning to go back to where we all started from. All life long, working to shed the paralysing flaws, to return to that instant, a mere moment, at birth, when our souls were in fact, intact. Before the first cry was heard, the first breath was taken, the first innate thought entered our hearts. That single moment when from a wish a creature emerged.

But I am not selfless. I am not faithful. I am not patient. I am not forgiving. I am not loving. Enough. I am not humble. Enough. I am not sincere. Enough.

I forget to be grateful. Have I told you how nice it was to see you? And that those days will forever stay engraved? But then a moment comes and I am again reminded that only the moment is an accurate unit of measurement of life. That moment when I was happy. That moment when you were pleased. That moment when we were content with all that we had. That moment when we realised that we had everything. That moment all other moments are measured by.

If I am unable to relinquish the memory, could I at least get a moment of your sweet love? Half way through, I feel new and also trapped. Freed but irreversibly stuck. Left behind. I stand on the island where the boat has sailed a long time ago. I cannot catch sight even of its ant sized sail. My island’s comfortable and silent. With wise discretion stays mute during the doubtful and dark moments. And then they pass. Did we leave anyone behind? They’ve set sail, with only the traces of happiness to remember them by. Moments that are my life. Are your life.

I am not selfless and beg you to please remember me. Make note of the words I use and tell others to read, to listen, to mark these inconsequential ideas. Make up stories where happiness lingers and isn’t confined to just a moment. Tell tales of sorrow where a black crow lifts even the direst moment into a minute Armageddon.

I am not faithful and fall into the burning pit of doubt. Take all your strength and all your hope to run screaming from that place where the moment lingers for an eternity. Tell them that faith brings with it love and that love sees no difference between you and me. Tell them of the times you have loved and how it has made you better. Love filled the holes in your soul.

I am not patient and scurry towards a mirage. If I ask, why can you not give? If I stay, why do you go? Tell lies of the times you waited and received. Tell them your ideas of time so when I hurry, it seems normal.

I am not forgiving and throw all your faults at you, your fragile soul. I expect you to never break, to never cry. What if your faults are only flaws to me? Could it be that I can’t even see you? Holding a grudge and wanting to be loved completely cannot exist in the same moment. How can I separate the moments so that I have you and that I have love? Then it becomes apparent, blindingly obvious that:

I am not loving. Enough. I am not humble. Enough. I am not sincere. Enough.

The Rock and The Tide

Gently, like a velvet drape, comes the water

Covers the motionless back.

Foamy and mysterious, bubbles that play on the rough surface

Of the rock.

The moon is master of all living at sea.

Curious though the eyes may be

Never can they fully see the impeccable beauty

Of the tide.

I am the rock and the tide.

I cannot leave now

I move back and forth between that which I know

The sand and the moon.

They have made friends,

This rock and this tide.

Distant lovers even, hungry for a forbidden sight.

Now hoping for water, for life.

Endless my love, my fear.

Colourless in a world underwater.

Washing the rock smooth, each echoing sound

Rings the distant bellows of the tide.

The lonesome rock awaits its tide.

Patient and pleading, the water arrives.

Gently it covers the rugged back

Of the lovely rock, this, your lovely tide.

Always in motion,

No rest, not even for an instant.

Always accepting the pull of time

Away from the lingering life.

The rock leaps in dreams.

The tide stays staring at the moon for hours.

In each others’ arms is where they fall.

Fall into love of the unmovable kind.

All choked up, empty to go

There are days of importance. There are days which have to bear the unbelievable weight of expectation. These days either bend or break, become steel enforced concrete or crumble at the pressure exerted. Some days disappear and some stay forever engraved. Monumental twenty four hours.

We met our day in the evening sun. One careless spring evening, our day was about to bend or break. We had the choice to make it slip or stay. As cautiously as we could, we took the fragile end of an exhausting day and held it close to our hearts and hands. To examine, to see clearly after the many many days that have stood between the last time and now. None of the other days ever recognised either you or me. But here it was, this shy but hopeful little day, almost at its last breath, waiting to see if we would bend or break. If we remembered, or forgot in all entirety, how to love. To love each other.

It was supposed to feel familiar, but never really did. Not for the time we had to try and find a path back to where we once stood together. I had lost sight completely of the road, of you. Dear stranger I am crushed to pieces if I have disappointed you. Dear stranger you’ve crushed me completely by being a disappointment. I could only retreat, confide in the new day that was nearing, whispering as I lay silent words of despair and sorrow. Why has time done this to you and me?

I longed for our time together to be perfect. I turned to every god I know, every sorcerer, every wizardry, and every trick in the big book of magic to make the days bear the force with which I supposed you and I would collide again. I prepared my heart for the biggest bang in theory. The poor little heart was going to be able to take even the loss of its home, loss of everything it knew to be true. I planned for our fateful collision to be exceptional and tenderly humble. Perfect in all of its imperfections. I was met with the harshness of a cool heart. I was met with the truth of time. I was met with a memory that could not be brought back to life. We both tried. Tried to massage its heart at first, then murmured sweet words into its longing ears, held it gently in our arms, even made new memories to save the old one, but lifeless all that we had remained.

I left running. I escaped and freed you. Now nothing holds us together. The memories of love have been tarnished. I know not how to make it better, turn it back to how it was. I left crying, aching from the void that I found where once our hearts were. We were bound endlessly in my mind but with your face and ways I found two hearts and two souls dancing to different beats and singing different tunes. The part of me you had has been lost. The part of you I held has been given back. You were unfamiliar, you were far.

Now we have an end. Now I can say I loved you only then.

Here is the heart.

A thousand times I think about the perils that I swerve my heart towards. The direction we should both steer clear of. The end that will see the heart grow hard and shrink in its loveless state. The end that will see the self turn into someone unrecognisable. But the path is oh so tempting and its perils though visible seem trivial from afar. Only on closer encounter will it become apparent that we have been moving in the wrong direction, me and my heart. Before it is too late I should halt all efforts to proceed. Before it is too late I should reason with the heart and obey the head. While there is still love left in my heart I should treasure it and not keep it for someone else, for some other time.

If I am not to hope and see my heart grow cold and hard, then I would rather have my pulsing bundle of muscle go down with a tragic ending. Never allowing it to stop beating with hopeful pride. I am terrified of even the slightest chance that because my heart thinks it will never be loved, it will start to retreat. Retreat and hide, grow thick skin, impenetrable armour. And one day, it will simply not care. If I have any control over my heart, then it is my sole duty, calling, to make sure that this fragile and determined deity never loses hope. That no matter how hopeless and loveless the days may really be, my heart can go on parading its lovely frocks and laced dresses of hope. Never fan its insecurities, never give in to the luring darkness that reality or disappointment may pose.

One moment is all. One moment I dread. One moment in the future will determine how badly my heart will be crushed, how high it will be lifted. I have to prepare it to hope, but hope with caution. I have to keep it safe so that when the blow comes it can withstand the quake in one piece. My heart is full and honest, scarred in places but intact in its optimism. To shield it from that moment seems impossible. That moment will crush us both. That moment will leave a bearing on all future endeavours of me and my heart.

There is after all. I cannot tell what the future holds. I can only hope. I hope my heart will be wiser, braver, stronger more beautiful and honest than I ever knew it could. I hope you will treasure it. I hope I can entrust it in your care. I know that when that moment comes, your heart will be just as crushed as mine. There we will stand, two crushed hearts, hidden from each other, tangled in lies that will sound something like “I’m fine, and you?”.

This Too Shall Pass

I feel empty, nervous, unmoved.
You are careless with your words.
There is a distance of space and time.
Hope has caught Chance by the hair,
It waits for you and I.

I feel distant and cold.
I fear every day that comes between then and now.
My proficiency at being alone does no credit to you.
Will you take the broken me?
Will we be you and me?

There used to be faith in the future,
I used to praise each passing day.
Faith is slipping through my fingers.
I am nothing if I cannot believe
In you and me.

My aching heart will have to bear
Silence and piercing echoes as well.
The faith I once had will have to stay
Unquestioning.
My love, I know not where you are,
I know not of You and I.

This is when…

When love is not enough. When knowing the imminent end does not scare away the hopeful hearted. When against all reason and better judgement, the burden is carried further with a companion who has outstayed the welcome. This is when the mind controls and unflinchingly witnesses the soul’s inner battle, the heart’s aching desire. When it is cruel to be alive and softly murderous to be resisting. This is when with mustered faith we must let go and fall into the unknown with will and compassion, hope for something better to come.

For the heart here cannot alter the parting facts. I regrettably know the weakness that lies in believing the mesmerizing ways of the heart in love. The tricks it pulls up its sleeves, the illusion it creates. In truth, the heart has the least to contribute. Its deception may only surface with the passing of years, decades, a lifetime. But before the end, its true colours will become apparent. The disappointment will reign on the deceived; and confused looks will throw even those that specialise in knowing the heart’s desire. This is when love is not enough. This is when the heart can no longer be enough to know. To show.

No matter how clearly I foresee each and every way the future will turn out, I allow the heart to trick me. I know that I will stand in front of you and think myself in love. I know that I will leave to never see you again, place my broken heart in your hand. I know that you will hurt. You will want to punish your heart. You will search high and low to know the end. But our hearts will not be the keepers of our love. They have never been. They have tied us together, but have never been the reason we have loved this long. The heart is a lifeless being without the soul. When we allowed our souls to fuse is when we secured our hearts’ right for each other. Made a pendant broken in two. It is up to our hearts to forgive. It is up to our souls to make one of two.

This is when I dream. This is when you ache. This is when we both realise that love is not enough. This is when I curse the day my heart learnt to love. And you, you turn to another and find solace in the arms of someone who does not carry the burdens of a prolonged love. I walk down the path that leads me towards a treacherous end. I will always think you to be the one. At an uncertain point you will offer your all to me. I will accept. We will live in love until we realise that the bond we so praised had loosened and our souls were not tied tightly enough. We fall separately to the ground. Then our hearts will beat with the same vigour they do now. Then we will say in unison again, after decades of forgetfulness, that this is when love is not enough. Not enough to weather life.

I would break for you. You would give your life for me. Never will I survive seeing your face again. My love, you say, never can I be the man that I wish for you to have.

Writer’s block unblocked

I don’t believe in writer’s block. If the words seem to not obey is because they know that for whatever they would be used would be worthless babble about unimportant or self important matters of subject. And to that, they do not want to be subjected. There is always a reason for silence. Those moments that appear tranquil, that beg for no sound, no word, no motion from anyone, arrive for a reason. To hush the urgency. To show how soothing time aimlessly passing can be. Silently seeing one’s soul crushed on a grey Sunday morning without the words to make sense. But there is a moment of stillness and without that moment, all words would lose their power. There is no such thing as a writer unable to write. That writer simply has nothing to say. Oftentimes the inability to create curls back to an unfounded notion of talentless-ness, but far from this being the case, I believe that there is much more talent in staying silent than there is in writing endlessly. Sentences that run on, chasing their own tails and in turn each other. Making sense to nobody, only being tiny bricks of a masterfully thought out building of cacophony. Then the words are overused and abused and become strangers to themselves. And this is why the writer must sometimes remain silent.

If there was no need for immediacy, then all writers would gladly succumb to the occasional silence of their souls. If only we were a little more patient, letting our hearts grow hungry and heavy, then the words to surface would be that of worth and value. With each sentence having the life span of a match, the flames flicker for a while, but then the light dies. With that the frail little bodies of the sweetly short, middle sized or lengthily run-on sentences collapse into oblivion. An abyss they surely will never have the strength to leave. Their creator now says there’s a block, but taking better care of the words that were set loose would have resulted in no blockage, just a fearless flight. Each writer tries to quench the urgency of productivity, creativity, the need to be seen now, heard now, read now, listened to now. Now is urgently screaming for now.

If there was no sadness in silence, then no cathartic eruption could result in words flowing again. Disappointment and desperation show the way to silence, who in turn shows the way to light. But there has to be a wait. The heart should not be forced to break and heal in one day. The torn soul should not be stretched between the ebb and flow.

Patiently I wait with time. I wait for the words and the words for me. Nothing blocks all what isn’t there. If my heart wants more than it can have, if my soul thinks love has been found, if my crying eyes miss the strangers from my life, then the stillness of the moment comes to hush all sounds and ground my wandering words to anchor on my soul’s infinite sea. I do them justice by letting them use me. I bend to give them way. I bow before their grace. I stay like the sparrow, kind and faithful and loving. Free to roam the lands and come back with words that make me brave to see the brokenness, make me strong and bold, unafraid to love. Because I do, still, love.

For Somebody

The cold wind is unstoppably finding its way through the cracks in the walls of my apartment. Winter is unapologetic and forceful, intent on halting life for a moment. Frozen, unable to continue with evil. Silent and obedient, the way mankind never is. It is not a success, not even for a moment. This season of white changes my city. Changes this city most fundamentally. I hardly recognise the streets, I hardly find resemblance in the people. Only when the cold sets in does the city become impolite, impatient, rude almost to its carers. Leave now, I want peace. I need a moment without you. Then we retreat to our homes where the cold air dances loops around the lamps hanging ornately from the ceiling.

I am shocked at the ambivalence of my heart. Breaking whilst landing on soft ground. Blooming for the love that it seeks to abandon. Breaking for the one that it has its eyes on. Unable to decide to mourn or celebrate. Where do eleven years disappear to? How long must the heart feel like it is betraying a memory? The cold can never get to it, but its own doing creates its demise. Running with excitement towards one whilst crying desperately for the one it is leaving behind. Were it warm, the heart would know better. Know not to want. Know not to ache. Know not to trust the winter days for the wind will stop its beating in a moment.

Softly the streets are covered with snow. All ambitions of love begin and you who want to conquer the frozen paths have to tread very lightly. The melody hums of something hopeful and broken. The beat is almost unheard, soft so as to never disturb the flakes that peacefully lie on one another. Piling up, a blanket for the heart to fall broken and bleeding. What was it that you wanted? My soul? Everything we had ever owned now becomes a distant memory. Your laugh, your hand, your ideas of a future that we never had. Now another wants a part, wants to show a new meaning of love. I need the old to be able to free my heart for the new, mould me into the person I am needed to be.

Never shield your ears from the songs that hurt. They cleanse. Never pretend like you do not need them. Each beautiful melody will turn your heart back to where it should be. Each song will make winter sweeter, the pain from the void of the old lover lesser, the hope for the new much much stronger. With each sad song I know that I could use somebody. Somebody like you.

A house of straw

Once a big wind blew with the bellows of doubt that destroyed the fragile house you built. Once the words you said out loud betrayed you. Not so long ago you thought that forever would stay for ever. Now the dark night steals each tear you cry for the days gone. Salvation has left your heart with no hope of a return.

Those bricks, you once so determined, carried close to where you both stood are now nothing but a reminder of how deep bullets can wedge their impermeable bodies. Between hearts, between souls, between the words for and ever. After you shake off the shackles, an empty shell is what remains. You seem lifeless, void of the colours that once glowed in your heart.

You asked me once to keep safe a love from long ago. It meant much to you, it made me important. You said that another will have you, now that other will be nothing more than a love from long ago. Someone else, or maybe me, will keep that love safe. A love that has died, that has lived, thrived, blossomed and now gone. Incomprehensible its story.

Incomprehensible you are to me.

One of the last days of careless summer

How I wondered, walking slowly down your streets, how long your glorious buildings would stand the mischievous sunshine. How long would you let the hopeful summer hearts roam the avenues in search of their missing halves. Would there ever be an end to the silent scorching afternoons that have graced many a days since the snows disappeared. Can I hope for your lifeline to send vaporised, misty messages into the sky. To have the bones of your ribs bend over the fumes of the autumn escaping. White lies cover the cobbles and in the spirit of change hurriedly sail to the Black Sea, forever away.

Please, do not mention winter. It is too soon. The memories burn in my brain and the ice hurts as it forms close to my heart. The poisonous air then stays trapped between the crooked and lean chimneys, between the bricks of centuries past. Then I am helpless. Then you become more bare and beautiful than any other time I have ever seen you. Stripped to the core I can turn to you and with honesty’s bare bones visible, we know that whatever is said then, stays forever imprinted, unchanged. Until the ill-formed ideas of spring, the somewhat childish enthusiasm of the first snowdrops come to erase the months before and turn our flittering hearts towards the tickling, weak, barely visible first rays of the sun.

For now I can smell the change. The bitter twist in your filthy air. Now it wraps itself around me, now it escapes every touch. It is distinct and unique. I can tell, it will be a beautiful winter. My silence will fill the piercing echoes you send through every vessel that states your dominance. Everything around you will heed and still you will not allow kindness to break the armour. There is no heart – the cry will come. I will defend your actions and your hurtful ways. I will show them that just because the storm has covered every glimpse of gentleness, you are still who you were on those lovely spring mornings.

The questions become answers. The wait becomes the natural way of life. The course that our lives take together becomes the only real thing you and I know. I fear for the day when we will have to part ways. I fear for my heart in your autumn streets. I fear for my soul on the frozen back of your river. I fear for my life amidst the careless flowers of your spring awakening. I fear summer the most, for it ends the quickest.

I stay faithfully yours, bound in deep love and painful chains.

Say something, I’m giving up on you

It’s been a long year. Cold in parts, freezing at moments, unbearable heat in waves, your voice flickering, your words swallowed whole by the echo that’s wedged between us. By the edge of the cliff I wait. A roaring thunder and you vanished, I could no longer see. It’s nearly been a year, now I wish I had the power to live somewhere else. On top of this lovely cliff is where I made my home, somehow close to you, but void of your love that once glowed. Slowly I learn what the birds tell me, but I’m waiting for you to say something. I wait just a little longer. Maybe one more day, maybe tomorrow I’ll hear that voice.

The soil is cooling down, nights bring a faint arctic breeze that will only strengthen in the days and months to come. I am prepared. I am well armed against the cold, the bitter power ending all glimpse of beautiful, coloured life. On the coattails of the northern stream I wish to whisk my armoured heart away. Close to nothing else but you. If I set off, I may freeze. If in deep slumber I am taken far from all that I know, I may imagine a world of glittering sunshine. Without a guide in that world of warmth, I may burn.

The curious passer-by offers a helping hand. I know it seems like a hopeless case – I kindly say, but trust the heart, I know I only have to wait another day. If I give up, who else will ever have the patience? The beasts of the wild would think me weak and overtake my spot in a second if I left to graze my lonely heart on a field further ahead. I’m not afraid. Come night, come rain, come cold, come any lurking carnivore: I stay, in earnest and hope: I stay, and imagine that I will hear the voice I long to hear.

I notice that the angels who stumble upon this cliff are fallen and broken. Ferocious in their intent to heal, but incomplete. With time the eyes learn to see the invisible. In my silence they sense my presence. I hear their whimpers; they bring their brokenness near, almost near enough to touch. En route to salvage the souls they have the power to still save, I expect them not to heed to my unfortunate heart’s ailment. But then I get a promise of a return, a promise I almost allow myself to believe. If only they were not fallen. If only these angels were not broken so.

A fire’s burning for now, it’s keeping me warm, it’s keeping me light. Like clockwork I hum our melody in the hope that you will this evening, finally, say something.

Ain’t it funny

How love slipped away, said his mother to her lover.
Now we’re free to choose, said his father to his lover.
And every moment was wasted, said your mother to your father.
From then on, nobody ever heard your voice in that house.
Not your mother, not your father, not your sister, they never even heard a sound.

This may break your heart, said your father to his lover.
The baby boy may not survive, said your mother to her lover.
You can leave this place any time, said your mother to your father to his lover.
The silence from the room caused no suspicion.

Sometimes staying is the hardest, said your mother to her lover.
I can’t be the one you build on, said your father to his lover.
We sat in silence, unmoved by guilt, said his father to his mother to her lover.
Darkened skies await the morning, there’s no sunshine.
No, they never even heard a sound.

I regret nothing, said your mother to your father.
Only moments ago I knew the reason, said your father to your mother.
We keep our souls intact, said his mother to his father to his lover.
And await salvation, said his father to his mother to her lover.
Without a word, the answers fell from the sky.
To his mother, to his father, to his sister, to their lovers.

So this is goodbye

My heart is aching from change. Change that must inevitably come, that must sweep across and create opportunities whilst demolishing already existing patterns. Upsetting the equilibrium that has been constructed for ease of mind. Change, like a devastating storm, a hurricane, lashes out at all corners of the soul. I break. I learn to live with the pain of letting go, whilst cherishing every memory. I break from the burden of the past. I see only pain. To mourn the time passed is the only way to celebrate its existence. The tears are heavy still and roll down my cheeks as they hurry to hit the ground and with a sound of splash announce their painful arrival at the end of the journey.

Here’s to love, to friendship. Here’s to your phantom that follows me, traces my steps back to its own, holds me captive. Here’s to the future that may hold a kind of happiness that is to this day unknown. It is certain that my heart will have to endure changes on a much larger scale yet. I am afraid that it is simply not cut out to bear the burden. I fear love will not have the bravery to call my name again.

I don’t lightly use words like forever. I know that forevers, they come and go. Some moments are easy, some others I find hard to live through. In my weakest I promise you forever and in your weakest you believe my insincerity. Then we’re both hurt and now I cannot fathom a life without you. I have not said a word and you have not promised me a thing. I will vanish as quickly as I have appeared. I will take my forevers with me and ask your ghost to kindly leave. Leave like a lover who has to say goodbye.

So let this be goodbye.
So this is goodbye.

I Hurt Too

Not by the words I said out loud, but by the ones that never made it to air. The ones that have been forced to live in my heart, silent. I hurt by the amazing ability of another soul to torment with unsung thoughts. I look not to your weaknesses but to my own frailty and flaws. I hurt by the motionless present and by the prospect of a future so still. I hurt not by your careless ways, but my own uncertainty. Clinging to doubt as if that was the only answer, wishing with every fibre in my body for something certain. I lose my footing and see myself tangled in the words you’ve said out loud to me. The ones I cared to hear.

I hurt by time. By time’s reckless rummaging through the memories. Those instances that are only apparent in the faded corners of their frames. I could cry I hurt so much. By my own choices and foolish mistakes. I cringe at the thought that I could have chosen better, done better, preformed better, loved better, missed better. When night comes to take over from the everlasting powers of the day, my heart starts to beat louder. My limbs move slower. My soul whispers and I listen. The burden of a life, the burden of an empty and meaningless life comes to haunt every single soul on this earth. Then we lie, curl up to the smallest we can be and wish that moment away. I wish it away on most nights, but tonight I admit that I hurt. Not by the words you have said out loud to me, but by the ones that never made it to my heart. I hurt by the silence that I see around me. I hurt by the rhythmless melodies and by the melodiesless rhythms. I mostly fail when I try and the days haunt me.

I hurt when I see the one who sings to me insincere. I break then. I break to shatter to a million pieces but at the end of the gentle cooing I emerge as a grand statue, not a crack, not a sign of brokenness. The face hides the darkest secrets masterfully. I am me and I hurt. Most days I will not let you see, but most days I hurt. I know that most days you hurt too. I know that every heart that has never found its way to you causes you pain. I know that uncertainty hurts you. I know that you are maimed by the thought of failure. I know that you are paralysed by self doubt. I know that you hurt just from the simple burden of a few short hours of the day. When the sun hides, when the birds stay silent. When the one who should care only turns away to never show a look of concern. I know that your heart would not beat if it never hurt. I know the streets could not greet you if they knew you were unable to hurt. The power to change can be painful, can be remarkably free.

I see chance in every morning but by night know that every hour since then breathed to hurt me. I awake with newfound bravery. I show it to you, you show it to me. Together we fight the hurt that will come and conquer, make us stronger, make us live better, make us love much, much more than we ever knew we could.

While I hurt and while you hurt, while we all hurt a little, there is a chance that we are just learning to take care of each other a little better.

are you still in love with the world?

I’m not a thief, nor have I been bestowed with powers special or exclusive. Never will I get your full attention. Never will I shine, sparkle or glitter. I am not likely to appear before you as anything else than what I am. I have no talent to disguise the raw, perhaps uncomfortable parts. I am no thief to steal the colourful feathers of others. I won’t make an impression, my face, you will not find imprinted in your mind. I won’t impress with mere words, looks or thought. You won’t catch yourself wondering how it was possible I had not come your way sooner. I am a ghost. I am a humble being, accepting and peace loving. I try not to manipulate or dictate. I appear bear before everyone. I hide nothing and I distort nothing.

I try.

I try not to hide or distort anything. I try to appear bear. I try to be a humble being. I try to be a ghost. I try to impress with thoughts, with love, with ideas about sincerity. I try to stay upright, straight, fair, just. I try to fight spinelessness in everyone. I try to learn the talents of covering the raw and uncomfortable parts. I try to sometimes show more love than I feel. I try to sparkle, shine. I try always to get your full attention. I try to imagine powers of an exclusive kind.

Now is the time for actions: to wake from paralysing slumber, to stir after the many years of stillness. To try and find the waterfall in the middle of the peaceful lake. These times are hopeful and crushing at the same time. I have befriended hope many a year ago. My faithful companion, I lean on the mature advice of the heavy hearted hope. Mostly it is a liberating ally, but at times it is a wretched being, tormenting my poor soul because it can. Yet, I wake each morning with a freshness and fullness that only hope can make me own. I praise it then, I hang ornament like compliments on its already over decorated garment. Until the end of the day when invisibly it begins to torment me anew. At night, hope is most wretched at night. In sweet dreams I wrestle with its angels, I fight a bloody battle with its white covered agents. Hope sends its army to win me over from reason and better judgement. For the whole night I fight ceaselessly and wake to defeat. Still, in the morning, again, it is hope who dictates the terms, who makes the streets appear kinder, the river cleaner, the sun brighter and love much, much closer. I am helpless in the face of such an adversary.

I cannot deny the darkness and in no way do I wish to do so. It is part of the life that I am choosing to live, that I have been given to make the most of. The dark sometimes lingers for days, weeks. It knows no time and never appears considerate of others around. Dark is dark, a lord in the soul for uncontrollable periods of time. I never grow angry at its presence, never fully wish it away. Just like hope in its wretched form, the dark can propel the soul to find ways towards the light much faster. Then it escapes and realises that it is still in love with the world. In love with every moment, with every human, with every flower, with every street and tree, bridge and building, hill and cave and river and cloud. Somehow, at times, the dark learns to smile.

I feel I’m moving towards something with the same speed that I am moving away from something else. This makes me still, but humble and patient. I wait for another year.

Love, save the empty

Let’s go to a place infected with truth
And resist with all our hearts

Seeing my face reflected in the glass of the speeding bus, alarmed by the wrinkles and the severe stare. Alarmed to see how my smiling cheeks have now turned sombre, lonely, sad in just a moment. Thoughts zig-zagging their way through my mind mostly concerned with truth. The notion holding the power to manoeuvre a fraction of a second against me and cast a veil of sorrow onto my happy state. Life and death hanging onto a moment. Love and loss hanging onto a moment. Truth and lies, the beliefs of one man, the pain of another. The void and the fullness, the loneliness and the fulfilment. The moment is king in the land of eternity.

I’m frightened and faithless. I ceased to believe in my future. I used to have faith, but faith has parted from me. Instead she has left sadness and fear. I no longer dream or chase hope with unshakable certainty. I have come to understand that the truth may be bloodier, dirtier than initially portrayed. I have found how gruesome the toil for the wishes so sacred can be. Complacency had gnawed at my heart, but now out of fear and fright I have come to accept the sadness that inevitably descends. Tried to embrace that moment, that precise moment when everything changes. When it becomes apparent that everything must and will take new form. That faith can no longer hold together the house of hope, a construction prone to consistent questioning, harsh words of caution. I am desperately trying to find a way out, to save myself from drowning by clutching a piece of floating wood. An old, crumbling, soaked trunk. Without faith, all’s bleak.

I am afraid.

To sacrifice the most precious can lead back into the fruitful kingdom of the heavenly maker? In the hope of making Truth my guide and Faith my companion, I am attempting to rid my soul of its burden. Of its useless weight, in excess, the lifeless and useless hopes and dreams. My soul’s dragging itself like a shadow behind me. Broken almost by the weight it is carrying in vain. I give them up so reluctantly. But I must, with faith escaping and sadness weaving its warm and comforting arms around every fibre of my body; I must try to rid the shackles. If I repent, I might hear an answer from the heavens above. If I offer what is unthinkably difficult to part with, I might get a reward. Like Abraham, with a heavy heart and deadly doubt, I take my one possession toward the place where all sacrifices are made. I question my own sincerity, but I give you up. For forty days and forty nights I breathe never for you. I seek never your wishes. I want nothing that’s yours. Nothing that’s you. This is my lent, purging my soul of you.

I have walked too far for you
I have waited too long for you
I have lied too many times for you
And I have followed your love ‘till there never really was at all

prague

She greeted me like an old lover. She recognised me instantly, welcomed me, and allowed me to see her all. She has changed. No longer is she the city that we knew, no longer is she careless, immature, all heart and no head. She is now cloaked in more dutiful garments. She compares herself to the likes of Paris, Brussels. She kept her Prussian pride but took ornaments from Provence. Now she is more style and grace, less of the bohemia she used to be. She grew with you. She grew with me. In time she will grow old with us, even if the stones and cobbles are changed and replaced. Her soul she shared with us, her soul you keep, her soul I keep.

I found a quiet city, a place true and sincere, taking a well deserved break from the curious eyes, the foreigners, the tourists. Come spring, she will have to dress her best and stand still for the pictures until the bitter cold arrives again. Yet she does not tire. For now she was amongst her own, a quiet and fragile city with deep wrinkles of history and love for even the smallest and newest of its inhabitants. Kindly she rested, waited for the early hour of the sundown and apologised to me for the many changes that masqueraded her parts from me. She said I would find the memories, that she has kept them safe.

I lost myself to beautiful dream: engulfed in passion with an old lover. There it was simple and then it was beautiful. There was no end and there was no reason to fear. The love that we forgot came rushing back with every touch, with every velvet glance. The rain tapping on the leaves outside sounded like applause to the quiet love we made. The city held us, kept us from prying eyes. It was a dream of the past and the future, in a place we both know so well. You and the city are still the reasons I dream each night.

This place I once called home, romanticised as it may have been, posed again as home. Could not wait for me to decide to stay. Saw me leave and could not hide the tears. I said I would be back, in a year or two, I would come again. She wanted me to stay, insisted that I make her my home again. I said Budapest waits, I cannot betray my present love. She understood only because she saw the sorrow in my eyes. She said Budapest is lucky, I said she knows very well. There is nothing I would not do for my old love, but the memories die once lifted from their precious resting place. They can be revisited, but never relived. Prague pained me, she always does, but she makes sure I land on soft grass. My heart hurt and I was unable to stop the tears. Dear Prague, don’t forget you love me, today.

Once I arrived back in Budapest, I grew calm and peace filled my heart. This love is good to me, allows me to dream, helps me find the old in the new.

Notes to an absent lover

You whisper in my ear, soft, inaudible, that heaven waits. Waits one day.
I should follow, ahead, towards the light, my heart begs me to move.
The sky above opens when your words whisper to me.
I’m coming, slowly I’m on my way.
The ghost that you are, the sweet thought that you’ve become, the wish that your face turns into convince me of heaven.
I cannot but place one foot after the other and follow you home.
But I cannot walk as fast as you want.
The fog makes you disappear, I’m alone.
Pain shrinks my faith to a size no longer visible. The bed was never taken, I have always been alone.
My tears are heavy, they drip, like thickened blood mark my face. A face of longing.
I have no power, you are my all.
Your promise of heaven keeps me on the path that sees my body break to pieces.
Your ghost, an optical illusion, a beckoning force leads me further from what I know to be true.
I am tired.
And alone.
You play with the heart so careless.
You destroy me.
The breezy meadows and sweet fruits of pine trees, the scent of hope and the sight of success help me carry on.
Burdened and bound, determined and captive, I answer your whisper.
I rest when I see the moon’s been following.
I go nowhere, stand motionless, with feet cracked and lifeless from the endless walk.
Your love calls me. I move the unmovable.
With my useless feet and burdened body, I run towards our heaven.

The story of Micó and Maszat

I wish I could travel in time. Or at least have some say in determining its velocity, the force and speed at which it changes lives. Knowing the end would bring no immediate relief, but once apparent, time travel could be a viable option to see, revisit, and rekindle with those who are gone. To lessen the pain or even make indefinite a particularly finite entity.

I’m hurting but I’m not hurt.

There are no bruises on my body, but the loss, the void is painful. Almost unbearable to live with. The life I have known thus far had companions who made every day different. Because they taught me unquestioning love. They showed me non judgemental commitment. Honest emotion embodied in the twosome that were my Micó and Maszat. Oftentimes I would be humbled by the untiring and boundless love they showed each and every day. As if we were starting anew, all past malicious intent had been forgotten. The past existed only as a platform for formidable memories and nothing more. With them I learnt about life. With them I saw love. With their help I understood the importance of devotion. With them I saw truth.

I’m hurting but I’m not hurt.

Nowhere does pain pierce at me but my heart. Where I keep them, where they have been ripped from. My loves. My friends. My siblings. My children. My past. My childhood. My innocent years gone with you. Now comes the time when I’m alone to face the evils of man and beast alike. You can’t guide me, I can no longer see. The biggest adventures and most fierce but playful fights, the quiet and calm evenings by the fire, the many many houses and many different streets, the many adversaries and the family you called your own. After a year apart, you’ve joined forces, but I’m alone. I keep your sweet faces in my memory and will start thinking about the impossible task of letting go.

Goodbye. Know you’ve given me life. Know that I’ll be hurting for a while. Know that no others could have made our lives complete. Know that the love you carry will always stay.

Know that we’re hurting, but we’re not hurt.