Hard to start,
And harder to continue.
Lips on lock,
Holding emotions in you.
You will hide,
lie, smile, be shy and quiet...
That least of all, you want to hide.
You sit alone,
In complete silence.
Surrounded by loud thoughts.
You try, to hold, to hide them,
And you hide them in your words...
Letter by letter,slowly
they come out of the darkness.
Line by line, they suddenly
come to life in ink.
«I know,» you write « that loneliness
Is never the right answer...
But my lips are locked
And, in time, I’ve lost the key.»
You know you want to say it;
You know you want to talk.
But paralyzing shyness
Whispers «You are not that strong!»
It stops you:
«You don’t know them, fool!
And they won’t bother too.
Who wants to know somebody
So quiet and dull like you?»
You know you want to fight it,
You don’t want to hide!
Flowing, raging through the sands,
Cascading, rolling down the dunes,
The waves - so cold, so fresh, so grand,
Swallowed the land into the blue.
The hot, dry ground went wet and cold.
The strangling air went fresh and light.
The deep-blue covered the sand-gold.
The hills of sand turned into tides.
And so he watched the desert sink,
All blue - he couldn't see the ground.
All he thirsted was a drink,
And overwhelmed by water, drowned.
Was it a blessing or a lie?
Didn't, at least, he leave in peace?
Thirst is a much worse way to die,
Than death by hallucinated seas.
They all say your hand can show your future. Your life paths stretching across the skin of your palms, every fold marking your every experience, and your fingertips imprinted with the truth of your very being. They say your hand is a map, displaying the future defined in your skin at birth... I disagree.
I say your hands can build your future. Your life path paved by them, your every experience formed by them, your very being formed by them and their actions. I say your hands are your tools, holding your future, moulding your life from birth.
I was making my way down the treading path in the forest, as I did every Sunday, right after dinner. I knew each tree, each branch and each rock like the back of my hand… The familiar whistle of the wind among the rows of trees I all but named by now, was like the voice of an old friend, one to whom I no longer wanted to talk. The low, overhanging branches I once loved to jump and reach, were but a nuisance I brushed away now, as I retraced the tracks I’d made last Sunday… The evening blurred into the monotonous routine of Sundays past, until I noticed a forking in the path - a track I’ve never made, nor seen… nor explored.
After a moment of thought, I stepped off my trail, as if striding onto a foreign land, ready to take in the novelty of the unseen. I must have walked for an hour, noting each...
I strolled through the piles of bright orange leaves, covering the ground like a golden carpet, illuminated by the few strings of sun that managed to reach through the shadows of the branches. The cool breeze rustled the canopies of the towering trees and carried birdsong through the forest. I never really managed to spot the birds, it was as if they were ghosts amid the shadow, just the pure sound of their souls remaining, heard among the quiet rustle. From now and then, a falling leaf imitated the flight of a finch, being picked up by the breeze, that now smelt of autumn, and eventually landing onto the golden heaps. The forest breathed, hummed and glistened with fall.
I don't know why I'm writing this... I'm tired, sitting at my desk, I look around (bear in mind, that my desk is very organised), and see this box. It's made of wooden sticks connected with thread. It's small, simple, straw-coloured... But that's not all I see.
I remember when I was buying it: I saw it sitting there on a shelf of some shop, and felt like it should be sitting on the shelf over my desk. I just liked it, and I felt like I needed it... I didn't know what I'd put in it, I didn't know what it would ever be for: it didn't have a purpose, it didn't have a meaning. I bought it nevertheless, just because I felt like it fits me, and I'd be happy even if it was hidden away, collecting dust...
But I look at it now, on its designated place on the shelf, and I know that it holds all...
I'm not well, but I don't feel pain.
There's just I sense I can't sustain
Myself, my body and my brain...
I've lost a strength I can't regain:
Like I am heavied by a chain
Around my neck, trying to restrain
My every move; like all my veins
Have drained of blood; like I've been slain
But not yet dead, or woke again.
I try to move, but it's in vain,
And in my brain a chaos reigns.
There is a thought I can't restrain,
A feeling I just can't explain,
That makes me question if I'm sane,
But what if I have met my bane?
And I'll have all my power drain,
Die, and leave nothing but a stain,
That will be washed away by rain...
And nothing of me will remain.
Oh how I hope I'm just insane.