Waking Life

The crack
Making me blind
To the border between
Matter of daylight and
Experience of sleep.
Which one to awaken from?
And how?
Closed in a loop,
Waiting leaves my side
And I descend,
With gravity of my being,
Into the crack.




It fizzes beneath the surface of my beliefs. Emerging every now and again, it entraps the inner guards and turns them into a dubious pile of clutter.

In a vacuum-like reality, thoughts get scattered by powerful currents. A place anyone visits on one’s own: reluctant, we stand at the doorstep wishing there would be a welcome, a bare greeting, by another soul.

The hall of mirrors sits, flickering eyelids in mute grandeur. She knows no vice bridges a solitary strip of path, and no ignorance hides the doomsday away from percolating scope of self-reflection.

But we choose to keep trying, lost in the sound of piercing barks aimed at the heavens.


the blank page

in the light of a new day, I stepped
out of those relentless gray whispers
soaked with futility and doubts, and welcomed
the weave and smell of a clear page.

it was so long since the last chapter had begun;
the one who started it looks foreign, out of place.
the same handwriting perseveres to inhabit
yet another tale of continuation, survival, change.

circles and destinies mash together, making
as little and as much sense as imagination unfurls.
our books are perfected patterns, too swift for
one-legged grasp, running free in fields of chance.

in the newborn light I greeted the dripping ink:
lot’s sticky fingers led my hand to pour out
a hopeful phrase. paragraphs away from brand new scrapes
I drew in, with vigor, smells of fresh commence.


On emotional banking

He steers away from heartbreak as if they have nothing to say to one another. Dozens of folders with snaps of his daily life depict his heart’s time-out: in them, he giggles, grooves, and exists.

In pursuit of positive thoughts and ceaseless triumphs, he proclaims his life a pain-free zone. As entire generations kneel before emotional buffers, most are oblivious to his cheerful numbness.

The planet journeys on, stumbling under the weight of selfies. Artificial intelligence is no longer a future away; each step of self-rejection brings him closer to his android possessions. Blinded by infinite filter options, he just keeps simpering…



How often do you peek over the fence?

I am not sure how it all came about but I took notice as it turned into a poke in the eye. Opinions I was hearing myself say in various conversations had little in common, other than me proving that I was certain about myself and the world.

It is not that I had an agenda to lie; I wasn’t consciously trying to hide or alter anything about myself. Yet, every now and then I was finding myself talking – all the more, defending certain beliefs – while on the inside wondering: WHY am I saying this?

The spider-web of human desire for certainty…

(Part II – to be continued)

Read Part I here


A Symbolic Encounter

Just like existence itself, words and descriptions are elusive by nature. To be who we are and then let go, to float between immersing in it all and hiding from it all and back again, is an affair as real as it is invisible.

I saw it in a dark, dusty corner of a large hardware store filled with clutter and immediately was drawn into its world. This, for me, was common. Flower vases tell me stories that go far beyond their obvious purpose or the way they look. This one, in particular, was a factory produced squat wobbly shaped brown vase with abstract white drawings. But in spite of its commonness, my ears were in tune with the language it spoke.

I heard the story of a supporting actress, crucial to the plot yet always in someone’s shadow – a permanent bridesmaid to ever-changing brides, her appearance toned down even when glorious. As I listened to tales of loyalty and compassion, her tone rang of calmness. She knew she would once quietly fulfill her destiny nurturing others and witnessing many a spotlight.

Much about the character of reality escapes me. But carrying the bag in which she rested wrapped up in gravelly paper, I have never been more certain about being that vase myself.

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I like those who can close the door.

Variety dresses in alluring fashion: a vibrant farmer’s market of never-ending goods to pick from. Juggling is a labyrinth many an individual gets lost in. Never closing doors talks of scattered living built on cowardice.

Indeed, when choosing we pay more attention to what goes off the table than what stays on.

For all that, we’re not to be everything to everyone.

Underneath the thin spread, through sampling of the goods, our choices make themselves. The ability to then bow out of the rest speaks of a person who holds a mirror close by.

I like those who can close the door. They recognize that greeting the reflection is all there can ever be.

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