Me Water and Wind

This world
abso-fucking-loutly is not for everyone.

Somedays are definitely not some people’s days.

And we either walk around spread advices to everyone and be the intelligence police.
or just dive deep into our ignorant life, where the problem is everyone and everything
but not ourselves.

Every single day is a day when some feel like they do not fit in this world.
and you know,
probably they are right.

What a winter we passed.

I found a note on my phone calling my living room “the association of sick plants”.
The same living room where so much love was created and spread,
was then turned to a dark ground-floor hole filled with spider nets and the cigarettes.

And then the spring came and things were a little bit better.
The world messier than ever but still,
There was a lover and there were friends and laughter and trees in the garden.
There was music and somehow a little room to dream on.

Some of those sick plants died but then new ones were born,
thanks to some magic and care with my little drops of power,
little drops of life energy.

And you know, it is really fine!
Who wants to be green and happy all the time?
there is truth is darkness, and there is truth in death.

Then, June came and this big beautiful Benjamin tree invited itself to the same living room.
the very same dark hole, where love is created and spread.

You have got to be on the watch because June always brings fantastic stuff. always!

And now, September it is!
Septembers are full of Drama.
Days too warm and days too cold.
DRAMA.

there must be a spring

in my story

there must be a blossoming

a being born again

otherwise

why does my skin feels so tight to me

why do I feel bigger than the space I take

It was under drops of warm water where I realised,
I am half fiction, half truth.

That I am embodied
made of bones and muscles
a heart and a brain
and loads and loads of nerves, holding me in one.

But also, partly so untouchable, so invisible
and mysterious to my own self.
do you know that part of you?

We are embodied stories.
we are a mix of moving organs and layers of imagination.

Our stories need a narrative
a character and perhaps more characters
our stories need an audience
a playground.
and like every story
constant transformations.
without which there is no life.

Here you can go outside.
you can go outside, walk alone.

But every time, on the walk back home you realise
It is not much about the “outside”.

It is not about the fresh air.
fresh air finds its way through your windows anyway…

It is the “the presence”,
the presence of those who you laughed with,
those you shared a meal with.

About the stories we made, the stories we can make.
It was more about the times we united, we danced.

It was knowing that even if you do not have the sea beside you,
you can always fly to it.

It was never much about “outside”.

And now, if you stop dreaming of life getting back to “normal”
at least for a moment,
if you stop contemplating what you can not have now,
only for some moment,

If you do a pause,
you realise
all that matters, is still there,
perhaps not always and not for everyone, but for most of the times and for most of  us.
You realise nothing is really in lack of anything.

You recognise the chance of sharing with your loved ones,
a family you share stories with, sweet ones and bitter ones
a friend close to your heart,
maybe a lover  you wake up to,
or even any other human being with whom you share a street.
you still feel them, hear them
and you still get mad at them…

This is not really a quarantine,
what our minds live sometimes at “normal life times”
is much more of a quarantine.

How tight we hold our hearts,
against life and the core of it,
is way tighter than a quarantine.

Here you can go outside,
you can go outside, walk alone.
but it is not about where you walk,
It is not about the “outside”.

I wish

in the middle of all this chaos and judgements

we finally observe our contradiction.

The little pieces of conflict and aggression

settling right inside of us.

Most of men and women in power

look dead to me

they terrorize, they murder each other

people

but before all, they have died long time ago.

As the folks, as individuals

we have got to be very conscious about our admirations of personas as a whole.

It is the sword carrying years and years of dedication, art and every hardship we admire

which can at the end, take lives…

It was getting on

fire, geniuses

School kind of ruined it.

same happened to my brother…

Maybe the answer

is whatever you want it to be

Maybe we just need to be more comfortable with not knowing

How hard it is to have that freedom…

The more I know

the more I feel alone