are you righteous?

accustomed proximity makes terrible misconceptions raise from the grounds and turn into shady mists of delusion. the moment you say: go!, it goes on to lengths you had only dreamed of in your worst dreams to date. the mistake of running barefoot on a race track where the partner runner is literally a stud can turn into an unfortunate accident with blistered repercussions. but you can't complain because you yourself have signed up for the race and claimed to be able to keep up pace or at least to try. the advantage of running within a team is reliability. but when the team is a gang and the rules that apply to the street are brought on the field the story turns into a run or let run one. considerable changes have been applied to this model, all of them being gathered experiences from previous races that have been carefully studied and schemed on the board, just to make sure no one would repeat them again. the coach was awfully wrong, though, when you run you need both speed and attention. being fast is unfortunately not enough.

temporary profanity

it dawned on the night that the cold and bloody light of day were close. and so was the inevitable. the smoky smell predicted the end of the centuries and all hearts were trembling accordingly. no one was speaking. all you could hear were breaths: heavy old ones, young excited ones, womanly gasping with amazement ones, even restricted held up breaths, but no words at all. and this was a first for the small bar on Tavelina Street where noise used to rattle on in neverending swirls of prating. this time there was no need for the usual. the day of the prophecy had arrived. he was going to appear. the greatest warrior of all, the one that turned ears into heavy transporters of imagination and hearts into bleeding vessels of passion, was going to be embodied as predicted into the last song on earth

when you draw the line...

...you get to the bottom of things. hence the expression: bottom line. my lines have never been too straight simply because i can't draw. i'm good with colors, but not at drawing. eh. good thing my life doesn't depend on it. actually, my life doesn't depend on anything other than myself and that's refreshing. but most of the times i've been quite hornswoggle. every time i tried to verbalize what went on underneath i failed like a shaking fore finger on a steady trigger. i guess this was because the supposed victim was not craving for my bullets. nor were they supposed to receive them. i ended up shooting blanks. funny enough they ended up hurt. even bleeding. somehow life has a bizarre way of making things even. so there's no point in crying over spilt bullets. as for trust, it seems to be functioning on the exact same principles as the liver: it's vital for any kind of interaction and lucky for us, if damaged, it grows back in the proper environment.

tender transparency

her head was swimming in flummadiddling thoughts. dead? how could i be dead when i'm aware of my own blink? her subjective angle caught glimpse of the running water. my blinks are joining the tap water drips: blink, drip, blink, drip... cute tune. she braced herself internally: no, no. death is way off in an opposite galaxy than i am right now. rumours are rumours and i rise above them as always. she picked herself off the floor and lifted the dropped dead purse, opened it and took out a piece of paper and a pen and started scribbling something. as the words unravelled from her pen, the white paper's reflection shed light on her face that unraveled a slight smile, but a smile nonetheless. i'd rather smile my cries as a method of giving them credit. yeah. i'm a smiling crier. because i seem to suffer from pain asymbolia anyway.
she finished writing the note, took out a pair of cuticle-scissors and nailed (or scissored would be more appropriate) the note to the bathroom door. it was her unsuicide note. it was her ticket out of the confusion. it was her old self self-awaring itself.
what she wrote on that note was actually one word. but she had used only the good letters to write it. care to guess what it was?

corrosive confusion

the girl's palms are sweaty. she's feeling the anxiousness of the inevitable-about-to-happen: she's about to let them down. her eyes are not moist. more like sad. she's desperately looking for a reason to put on the table and make at least a part of what she's feeling about herself, real. but there's nothing around to reach for. she reaches for her purse, but it's so heavy as if it's filled with millions of razorblades that would slash her skin open if she looked inside. she drops it on the floor. her heart is pounding and the purse is falling in the slowest motion possible. it refuses to touch ground. she gasps. the purse is in the air. she hits it with her right foot, but it's like hitting an invisible rubber deck. she looks out the window and back at the purse: it lays dead on the floor. even gravity is making its point. she puts her palms together. they smell like failure and feel like ice. she blows them hot hoping to melt them. the only thing that seems to melt is her reason. she takes out her phone and starts texting: i've been.. (too obvious) - she deletes it. puts the phone on the sink. the tap is running. now there's a purpose, a way and a means - all reaching the same goal: function. hard concept for a dysfunctional girl. she looks in the mirror. this pair of green eyes staring back at her are not hers. the mirror liquefies together with that image. her heart is a prisoner screaming behind rib bars. her pain is dumb, but she can hear it. the rumors are true: she's dead.

tree talk

Two trees lay on the grass. They look at each other without staring. They’ve known each other for some time now and they know each other’s flaws too well. Not to mention the qualities. When you know someone for so long, even good qualities turn into flaws. 1000 years? Seems more of an inside joke that makes neither of them laugh anymore.

You know? 384 summers ago I’ve touched you. It was the only time my right side leaves decided to grow in your direction.

Yeah? Funny. I honestly can’t remember. I do remember when they started falling. It was 284 autumns ago. One of them touched me.

(smiles) I’m always caught by surprise. How do you manage to keep them on for so long? And it seems like yours fall on their own. Without any help. With me it takes wind. It was the same back then. The grace was purely accidental. No pun intended.

But pleasant, nonetheless. Just so you know.

You’re almost making me blush. Did you really like it?

Why do you think autumn is my favorite season?

Mine is summer, but for the exact same reason.

in the cold mocking light of day

On the highest step of the conventional social ladder, the turnarounds in terms of love and passion seem to end at one point and start somewhere between what has happened and what’s left to happen. Trapped between the organic conclusions of past experiences and the obsolete innocence of future expectations, the relationship slash love, evoked by the present tense, looks like a black and white photo of a pure and yet uncertain virgin aching with desire and trembling with indecision - her heart is made up, but her mind is not. The opposite’s been known to happen as well. Duality’s what’s making her/him/us desirable. I said duality and not hypocrisy (I didn’t think you were one then, and I certainly don’t think you are one now – hypocrite that is – just felt the need to mention it and blog-ly apologize). Almost blindly stricken by an enormous emotional shove over the last floor’s balcony of perception, the reason crushes hopelessly on the concrete reality of lust, need, want, crave of one for the other. Seducing tactics, found in thick books of love or summer issues of sex magazines, do tend to fail as if they were these giant cannonballs brought in as a last resort in a war of exclusively high tech weapons – useless. The he/she routine, as it’s been known and successfully used by my parents, fits today’s relationship-al needs like a ruptured umbrella on a pouring-cats-and-dogs day – useless yet again. Seeking advice is the final stage of the socio-cultural disease of sharing the togetherness. Upon making love, we make the mistake of making possession and making promises and we dismiss the act itself that reveals from two beings colliding on the shady life’s orbit. Their reason and reasonable emotions for one another get so stuck on the mazey webs of maybes, whens, ifs, and whys that their initial quest for pleasure soon goes out of their focus. Questions become answers and the answers are even more questionable as words get lost for other words. When inside all of this chaos of rapture-driven-need of sharing and being shared the answer should be self explanatory: that one other person. Whose blink of an eye makes your stomach tremble, whose licking of lips makes you wish you had a taste, whose first breath in the morning is that life saving oxygen breath you'd linger on forever. That person makes the maybes turn into yeses, the whens into nows, the ifs into for sures and the whys into becauses without any preliminary intention. Self explanatory and yet so damn hard to explain: you do!

as long as...

I'm the oldest 25er I know.
I could be a grandma if I were given the chance.
I guess pain, both physical and emotional count towards getting to a certain level of maturity. Howeva', I seem to rush into things and into life itself with the blooming recklessness of a 15teener. I guess I'll be the same when I'll be 60. If I get there.. Something tells me I will, if I haven't already got there by now.
The grandma in me tells me 2 things: there is time for everything, so no rush, but there is no time for regrets, so have none.

As long as the sun rises there will be light (I'm afraid of darkness).

As long as there is light, there's sight.

As long as there's sight, there's perspective.

As long as there's perspective, there's creativity.

As long as there's creativity, there are words.

As long as there'll be words, there'll be music too.

As long as there's music, there's a good enough as long to consider.

As long as there's an as long (whatever that might be), there will be less of a shortage.

NO-HO

NO-HO stands for November Holidays. Yes people, for each day of November there's a named holiday and a very brave lady decided to put all of them together.
It's a collection of posts for each day of the month and all of them are at jlomowriter.blogspot.com.
I had my say on the 9th day.

shrink love, shrink - part 2

...So not the looks, not the loony bit, not her stories that she had been virtually feeding him over the last emailing months. But she had something that made him wonder: did they stand a chance?

As he kept on walking, Sebastian was curiously staring at his own shoes on his good-intention-stones-paved-road to his small uptown apartment. For a moment there he thought:

Gee, my feet look awesome even when they're shoed up!

But this time his amazing feet were not going to get him out of thinking about her. There was something there (around her) that required more of his attention and if that meant removing it from his gorgeous feet, well that was the price that he would agree to pay.

He even started making up some sort of answer to her latest email. With every pace getting him closer to his doorstep a new potential answer would arise:

no answer at all (let her boil)

a professional answer to keep it strictly professional

making it tough for her and give her a hard wake up call on the status of her/their mind

play around with her and make her think she has a problem (she can handle it)

play around and make her think I have a problem (she can handle that even better)

play around and

He was standing in front of his door, keys in right hand ready to unlock: Play around!

He smiled his usual damn-I'm-better-than-my-personal-last-best smile and headed for the shower.

Downtown, in a crane surrounded office building emails were sent, phones were answered, conferences were held, money were being made and time was being recklessly spent.

But not by her. She was thinking about the good ol' doc and his whereabouts, but mostly about what he was going to answer and if he was going to answer at all.

He did. Plain and simple as his charms (as the best things in life are said to be):

Hi you,

I don't have the answers you are looking for.
Sorry.
But I do have a small couch for 2 and a new sitcom.
Would that do for tonight?

to be seen if and how to be continued..