Night mayhem

It is almost midnight. The wet road is turning cars into ocean waves and the birds are singing. They are calling for the stars. But the clouds won’t listen to their prayers. They refuse to spit the stars out because they taste like pop rocks.

I can’t seem to convince the Great Dragon to carry me up to steal the stars back. He keeps insisting he is a tree. Looks as ridiculous as we did in drama class, if I may say so. It is true that his scales are as rough as tree bark, but trees don’t breathe and they certainly not exhale smoke, do they? Yet amidst all this ruckus, your silence has been noticed.

MAESTRO

 

Impeccable posture and perfect tux, he arrives. Wider than life, the first thought striking your brain is how much broader his shoulders are. The muscles are much more defined than expected. Then, he has always demonstrated an almost scaringly mechanical control of all of his 700 muscles.

A subtle shift of his wrist, and it begins.

His commanding presence imposes itself on your spinning thoughts. The gracious fingers are so far away, at the opposite end of the stage. However, the feeling of them reaching inside your brain is very much real. There it is, the tender touch gathering all the loose threads of thoughts, carefully wrapping them around his dexterous fingers and strong wrists.

Only when the meticulous harvest of your thoughts is completed, will he start fiddling with your emotions, relentless as the tide, accurate as a surgeon. Suddenly, you know what it feels like to be a Stradivarius in the hands of a prodigy.

The seemingly effortless way with which he conjures rough diamonds from the cliffs of your bottom eyelids is both enthralling and maddening. The unexpected beauty of his face contorting itself is overwhelming. It flicks through a myriad of expressions in the span of a heartbeat. His intense gaze betrays the volcano burning inside. The restrained manners ingrained through the years barely conceal the storm brewing inside.

His voice wraps itself around you, cloaking you from the absurd reality of the world, sometimes soothingly, sometimes oppressively. It carries a thousand souls, a thousand minds, all alike, all desperately human and yet each unique.

The words conveyed are precious. They are essential, they are paramount to the performance, carefully chosen, wielded and delivered, years of practice culminating in a flawless enunciation. Yet, they are meaningless. Superfluous. Unneeded. Everything is already etched in the lines of his face, in the lines of his limbs, in the lines of his moves.

The similarities in between each performance are glaringly obvious, standing proudly at the forefront of the act. It is after all the same face, same eyes same nose same lips same chin same arms same fingers, same body. The variations are subtle, barely noticeable by the conscious eye. Yet, they make all the difference. No matter how many times you both end up in an identical configuration, him flying above on stage and you still in your chair, it will never be the same.

The sad part is that he will never know how much all this means.

And that is precisely the magic of it.

The Girl who Had Migraines (To Amy)

The Girl That Had Migraines.

(dedicated to Amy Dupcak.)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl, living in a big crowded city. She was like every little girl. She liked sweets and colored lights on the Christmas tree. She went to school every day, like every other girl, but she spent most of the hours day dreaming.

She loved to dream, and she often created all those stories in her mind, and the hours of boredom would vanish in the blink of an eye, the white letters on the blackboard, becoming fairy powder or turning in a swirl of snowflakes, hidden behind her big brown eyes.

Back home, she would spent hours, reading and reading, making her way through the old, heavy, leather bound books of her father’s library.

She was a happy little girl, until the headaches began.

The first one came in class. Her head suddenly felt heavier and heavier, until she could not keep it up. She put it slowly down on her arms, while every single noise in the classroom became so painful she could not stay.

She hoped it would disappear. And it did.

Unfortunately, it was just the beginning.

 

As the days passed, the headaches became more and more frequent, and she had to hide in the dark, far from the light and her beloved books.

Her parents were concerned, as were her teachers. And it was becoming harder and harder for her to sink in her dreams far away, because the headaches came too often, and were too painful.

So they took her to the doctor. And another doctor. And another one. All they learnt was that the headaches were called “Migraines”.

Some doctors said it was her nose that was too small. Others said it was her lungs. One did say, it was her head, and it made her laugh. Of course it was her head; she did not have a stomach ache!

She was given loads of different medicines, some of them looked terrifying. She even thought she saw one with a skull on it! But her parents reassured her, told her she would feel better. So she took them. Her parents loved her and they only wanted her to be the dreamy little girl she used to be. And both of her parents were so sad to see none of the doctors could find what was wrong with her.

And then, one day, as she was walking back from school with her mother, she found a book and a pen, abandoned on a wall. She picked it while her mother was looking out for cars, before crossing the road, and she stuffed it in her bag.

She could not resist it. It was, as if that small book was calling her, begging her to take it home.

The three of them arrived safely home, thanks to her mother’s care. She was feeling the headache coming, sneaking on top of her head. And it was getting more difficult, to keep her head up.

She rushed to her room, and lied down on the bed. She carefully took the little book from her school bag, along with the pen, and studied them. She very slowly opened the first page, and saw it only had a few words inside. All the other pages were blank. It was written that a magic was hidden in the pages, and that those in need would find help in them.

She grabbed the pen, and tried to write a few words on the second page. And the moment her pen touched the page, she was sucked back in her old daydreams. She could not stop writing, the words were pouring down, unstoppable, and she was enjoying every second. She had so many stories to write down; she kept writing and writing, up until diner.

And, it is only when her mother called her for diner, that she noticed her head was lighter. Normally, the headache would have stayed until the next morning. But it was gone.

She ran downstairs, and hugged her mother. She told her everything, and her mother could not believe.  However, it was much simpler that what the doctors thought.

She did not have anything wrong, neither to her nose nor to her head. She simply had so many words inside her brain, stories mingling together, her own and those from others, that her head could not carry all of them. From that day on, she kept writing down every evening, all the words that she shad stored during the days. And never again did she suffer from the Migraines.

 

And guess what?

 

She became a very famous writer, known all around the world, for all her amazing stories, full of originality and beauty.

No one knew about the magic little book, apart from her parents. She kept it all her life. Of course, it had been filled. But she had a plan, for the magic to live on. During the years, she had collected tons of small books, most were completely filled, but she had chosen one, in which she had never written a single word. It looked exactly the same, as the book she had found.  And when she had finally reach an old age, where stories don’t need to be invented anymore as they can simply be remembered, she took a walk around her neighbourhood, with the little book, and a pen.

She sat down in the park and opened the book. She very carefully took out the pen, and wrote down,the same exact words she read years ago.

“Magic is hidden inside these pages. The one who needs help shall find it inside them”

Then, she put the book slowly down on the bench, and added the pen on top of it. Without turning around, she walked back home, hoping for the magic, to carry on to another lucky dreamy soul.

Twenty

Twenty Hours

It has been twenty hours, since they threw me in that padded cube.
I can see the clock, when they open the door to feed me.
Twenty hours since I've been labeled as crazy. No one believes me... Why would they?
I barely believe myself. You were the only one, to believe the voices in my head. You told me go
on, ask them what they want. If you do what they want, they might get away.
And now, i'm waiting. Waiting for you to come back, and get me out of the white hole.
Everything is white, and clean, and smells like a swimming pool.
A clean to death, swimming pool.
The voices are still there though. They're telling we did right, that you're not angry
That the Men In White are preventing you from coming.
That you must be fighting like a wolf mom. So I sit, smiling to myself. My confidence in you will
never waver. That 's how we trust each other. I know it, I feel it...

So I sit,
I sit in the corner of the room and I dream.
I dream about you.

Twenty days

I've been good, just stopped taking the pills and played nicely. Smiled when they wanted me smile,
gone to the shower myself... I'm starting to like this new home of mine... Pure nice, soft white...
And the silence. The voices are quieter... Even they are starting to fade away... As your face is... I'm
afraid to forget you, so I repeat your name again and again. I try to remember all the times we spent
together. I don't really care about my own name but yours, I cannot forget it. Never.
They take me out twice a day, for showering and for walking.
And once a week, I see the doctor. I never talk.
Or the less I can manage without having to take the drugs again.
The drugs numb the voices. All of them... Even yours... And I don't want to lose yours.
So I stopped taking the drugs. And stopped moving.
I do the less I can, I eat the less I can. So I don't have to move more than what they want me to do

So I sit,
I sit in the corner of the room and I dream.
I dream about you.

Twenty weeks

The doctor said I was ready to dwell in the memories.
He said I had to remember. He said I knew why you were not here.
He said I had to understand by myself.
He said he would tell me if I could not but that I had to at least try.
I'm afraid. The voices are back full strength. They tell me again and again, that I cannot trust him.
But he has been good to me. Nice, at least... as nice as he could be. He even let me keep the
newspaper and a pen.
I started marking the days on the newspaper he left me. To be sure I don't miss a day.
The voices tell me to wait. I know they are right. I miss you. You would know what to do with the
doctor. How to know why he would be lying. I try to remember what he is referring to.
I cannot function without you. My brain is misty. I remember loads of moments with you
I remember your voice, and your eyes. And that craziness you had.
Now I am the one labeled as crazy.
They say I' m not dangerous. Neither to others nor myself
So I got a pen. And I draw sticks. I cannot write. Because they would read. And they would feed me
back the drugs. I have lost weight. Since the days passed away.
I wonder where you are. I hope you are happy. I hope you are smiling. And doing stupid things as
we used to do. I have not forgotten.
I have not forgotten your name my beloved.
And I know. As soon as you will escape you will join me in here and we will both escape
I am afraid. The door will open and they will lead me to the doctor. I don't want to remember. If I
really can. He said it as if something bad had happened to you. I am afraid he is trying to convince
me I hurt you. I know I did not. I would never have been able to do any harm to you. And you
agreed with the voices. You told me it was the right thing to do. But that's it. I don't remember what
was right. I just know it was.

So I sit,
I sit in the corner of the room and I dream.
I dream about you.

Twenty Months

I was right. The doctor said you would not come. He said you could not come.
He said it, as if he was saying you were dead. In his eyes, I saw the blame.
The voices are my only support now. I beg them to help, to tell me what to do. I'm lost without you.
I don't know what to do. I'm so used to the welcoming white i'm afraid of going outside. I've refused
the walks, I 'm not threatening, I just don't move.
They let it go.
They still offer though.
Seeing I don't threaten or act violent, I can stay inside. I feel better that way. I don't want to see a
world, a dirty world, an ugly world, without you.
I don't know why, why the doctor would hurt me like that. I know you were smiling, smiling at me,
the last time I saw you. You were not angry. You were happy. Happy to be with me. That's what the
doctor does not understand. Maybe he is jealous of that. Because nobody loved him as deep as you
love me.
I don't know and I cannot think anymore. Everything fades, you, the voices, me. Everything is white
now. Empty and clean. Even my brain.
I just have your name, your beautiful name on my lips.
I'm an empty shell. But I know that when you will be back, you will give it back to me. My heart
will beat again, and I'll feel the heat and the cold again.
I wait for you my angel. I keep my promises, always. I have not moved for so long now, it is
starting to get difficult to stand up. But I know I will be able to do it when you will be with me. My
heart, my soul, my love. I miss you, I miss you so much. Everything fades away, but not the pain of
knowing you are somewhere, somewhere far from me, somewhere I cannot reach you.
But I will someday. I have a good health, my body is strong. I can wait. I have got time. More time
that the doctor will ever guess.

So I sit,
I sit in the corner of the room and I dream.
I dream about you.

Twenty years

The doctor has changed several times already. They don't even try to reach me now anymore.
But I heard the doctor talking behind the door.
They have become careless. The door was not closed. I heard them
I am wasting away. The doctor said I would die in a matter of hours now.
But even after I'll still wait for you my love.
All those years, they said I should have stopped hoping. They don't understand. What our love
meant. What IT means. I know you are trying to reach me. Maybe the first doctor was right. Maybe
I killed you. And the waiting was your wrath. But now, now you miss me too, and we will be
reunited.
Everything mixes in my head. I 'm not sure what was yesterday and what was tomorrow. I 'm lost.
Lost without you. I do not know what to do. But I am not afraid anymore. You did not come, not
yet. If you are truly gone then I will be joining you. Soon. If you are still here, and trying to reach
me, you will find a way to join me, even through death.
So even on the other side of the gate, I'll be waiting for you.
I don't even understand, what the doctor asks me today. It takes me a while to understand he wants
me to move. But I cannot. I want to but I cannot. I try to imagine you, offering your hand so I would
get the energy. But I could not.
I guess it is truly the end for me. My body cannot wait any longer. I am sorry. I did my best my
love. I tried but I could not.
The door opens. The doctor sits next to me. It has been long since I stopped going to the office and
that he started coming himself. So long, I am not sure I remember the inside of his office.
I am not afraid anymore. I'm lost, but the soothing white is still all around me. And I've been told it
is the same, on the other side of the gates.
The doctor is sighing. He is trying to tell me something.
Something important. I have to listen he says.
So I listen. That's something I cannot refuse to do.
He said I have been lying to myself. I remember him saying that loads of time already
He says I should open my eyes.
He says I should remember.
He says the blood was not yours.
I remember him telling me that already, a long time ago. But I had forgotten.
I might not have listened carefully.
He says I misunderstood. He says I keep forgetting why I ended up in here. He says, the moment I
go out of his office, or he walks out of my room, I forget and remember the wrong story. He says
they never thought I had killed you. Because, He says, the blood was mine. All along, it has been
mine. He says I need to understand, before going to the other side. That God will not want me if I
don't. I know he is doing what he thinks right. He is afraid for my soul. That is why he keeps saying
all those things. He says I have to focus on his words. So I Try.
He says I did not try to kill you.
He says the voices convinced us I had to die.
He says You tried to kill me.
He says I tried to kill myself.
Because, he says,

You never existed outside of my head.
You never existed outside of my head.
You never existed outside of my head.

I'm Lost

I cannot comprehend what he says. I know you are real. So I will keep waiting.
As long as it will take for death to come and whisk me away. And during the last twenty something
left

I sit,
I sit in the corner of the room and I dream.
I dream about YOU

honey

Honey,

I finally feel

I should say sorry

 

 

 

 

Took some times I know

But you’re used to it by now

I’m always on the go

We work so hard to make ourselves happy

Shift after shift for the next car the next TV

A big home and some clinging homey money

You can trust me, I do know

And that’s probably why even now

I’m still on the go

How many times already

Have you asked yourself what’s wrong with me?

Oh hey, don’t look at me

How would I know if you are weirdo?

Better ask the thorns in your ego

That’s a trail of thought I’d rather not follow

Love is your deepest worry

So you work bloody hard on it

And yet that damn Love’s out of reach

You can trust me, I do know

And that’s probably why even now

I’m still on the go

Might not make it any better but honestly?

I could have worked harder on it

So guess what: I’m sincerely sorry

Took some times I know

But you’re used to me by now

I’m always on the go

 

 

My advice will be

Just try less

Honey.

Fiction

It has been years. I cannot recall the number of times I spied on them, watching the reflection in the mirror, to avoid having to look at them directly. I lost count long ago, but I never lost the tingling feeling that reminds me of their presence.

 

It seems like I m the only one seeing the letters, stretched over my skin, in a reddish, blotched, scrawny writing. Sometimes, I swear the words get antsy, and decide to change location on my body.

It is a sort of tattoo, engraved forever at the edges of my minds. Even thinking in another language, slipping in a foreign logic, cascading down alien rhythms that blends all my thoughts together, creating a different mind inside my own (or is it outside my own? Across the borders of my own? ) does not erase them. They too, swirl around to comply with the new requirements, moulting, modifying their looks, but stubbornly meaning the same thing. Not many of us face such eternal words, or even realize when we spit them from the corner of our lips, the permanent status they bear.

 

I have given up sometimes ago. I don’t ask anymore, if someone else sees them. Whether they can spot the weird calligraphy or not does not matter in the end.

 

It is by their mere presence in my mind, that the words are entrusted with  their power. I don’t recall who said that, but I know that pretty well by now: “Words only have the strength you give them”. God knows you did wish them potent, when you scattered the letters in my unconscious.

 

They always seem to set ablaze my thoughts at the most unexpected moment. Alas, all tries to wash them away have been useless.

 

I tried writing them down, again and again, mumbling them, again and again, until the mumbling turned into chanting, and the chanting turned into shouting, the shouting, into screaming until finally, they reached the end of their journey and dieed in a long breathless silence, like sources becoming streams, streams becoming torrents, and torrents, rivers, until finally they reach the end of their journey and die into the ocean.

 

However, the surrounding air does not have the deadly will of the ocean, and the words just slip back inside fingers, resting down, there, right on the tips where they came from, gathering enough strength to fight against the flow in my veins, to hide once again, in the very core of my being.

 

Sometimes, on rare occasions, I get braver, and try to scratch them of my skin, and my memory, bleaching my souvenirs with  new blinding  moments, intense enough so that my mind will never forget those new events.  There is not a never ending storage space in our brains; so surely, it must wash away the older, useless memories to create room from new, happier or prettier ones?

 

I do regret the day we met, and also the day we first talked together, with open hearts, and open smiles. And I surely regret as much as you do, the day we fell in love, or at least when we thought we fell in love.

 

What I regret above all, is the day when the only exit left for us, was through the rusty shaky, gates of those hurtful words we exchanged.  Because, as surely as those words will never fully leave me, I know that wherever you are, you will always feel the same sharp pang of shame, anger and pain, each time you’ll come across a word looking like my name.

 

I will never forgive you, for setting such a curse on my being,

just as you will never forgive me for making you laid it down.

 

Some might found this inevitable string of events quite saddening, but i will never agree. Tonight, I will not summon the white lies, and let the truth blossom, at least once.

 

 

Truth to be told,

 

I will always find solace in the knowledge that

our passionate bond will survive forever,

even though only, in the despicable shape of Hate.

Curious Lil’ Monkey

The curious lil’ Monkey
Was hanging off a tree
Bored as he seemed to be
Absent mindedly scratching his knee
He Suddenly spotted a key
beckoning and shiny
Beware curious lil’ monkey
You don’t know what it’s hidin’

Jumped on the floor
Taking the key he now adored
Ran around lookin’ for a door
That would be opened by his treasure
It was not long before
Curious makes Smart and even more
He found a big big door
Monkeys can’t resist to explore

The curious lil’ Monkey
Got flooded by what’s the door’d been hidin’
Tons and Tons of Water fallin
Drenching his fur and choking him
Poor lil’ Monkey
pretty miserable all wet and dirty
do you think he learnt anything?
Naww, still curious and still monkey

The Curious Lil’ Monkey
Got back in his tree
water surrounding it
He waited for the sun to clear it
Stupid lil’ Monkey
Soon forgot what got him stuck in the tree
Waters cleared and once again he spotted a shiny key
Guess what happened to the Curious Lil’ Monkey

He learnt how to swim!