About Wants

“Perhaps the only difference between me and other people is that I’ve always demanded more from the sunset, more spectacular colors when the Sun hit the horizon…That’s perhaps my only sin…”

Nymphomaniac

Lars von Trier

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About Courage

About Courage

 

Malia was dipping the tea bag in the cup, mechanically, the cup was cold and still full. She was trying to catch her great grandmother’s wondering eyes, she was so lost. Purple tears were falling down her perfect skin. The pink pale lips were not moving, she was not there but her thoughts and pain were suffocating the room in the most peaceful way. She was trying to ignore the deeper but scarcer breaths in the background of the small room. Panic was enclosing, Malia felt it smothering her and she wanted to shake her great grandmother, grab her all-knowing hands and spill the cup of coffee with two sugars. She need to know what were they going to do! But she felt that if she reached towards her she will break her, she will make her crumble in fading papers on the floor.

The deep voice in the background called her name and cracked time in pieces. She stood up, and fixed her white hair behind her years. She was there again, the soul of the ancient time.

She went next to the red raggedy bed and gently put her head on his chest.

A screaming noise was piercing through Malia’s head, she was sweating cold, she wanted to rip the sheets of the bed, tear through her chest and pull out her veins and heart, she wanted to dig her nails in the wood of the table, she was all delusional, restlessness. Her teeth were gridding, it was just like that one time she had tried cocaine, but this time it was all on the ultimate truth she was paranoid.

The room was serenity.

The living voice of the forever doomed said: “It is all good. You can go now… you can go my lover…”

All the love in the world was dying.

It was February, the sixth.

Her great grandmother lived for another seven years. On the porch, with her eyes lost just like on that day… Malia would feel her getting more fragile, but more connected to whatever it was that breathe life into her still alert words. “Complete…” she would whisper sometimes and Malia would witness her crossing into all the years she had stood on that porch, a little bit behind him, watching the birds settling on his shoulder, breathing his calmness, his certainty, while smoking those heavy intoxicating cigarettes he would desire until his last day. Nothing slipped his calling. Neither did her great grandmother now… All those years spent together with her eternal “lover”, more than what people live for a life time, were in front of her…she knew exactly where she was going…

Malia remembered telling Mike this story, on a black sandy beach, under an olive tree. He would say: “Don’t worry, you will find your drug!” But… did she want to? Could she bear it?…

 

To Elena and Lesley, the most loving and courageous women I’ve ever had the blessing of being around…

M.

About Wounds

About Wounds

Her blue eyed grandfather would come and find her like that, in her underwear, while lying on the cold tales of the kitchen. The summer light from the above was strong and hot but the drips gathering next to her were cold. A sickening reddish. Fresh flesh and the teary pink blue eyes looking down on her. He would be hurt, the soft man, seeing all of this, he would shiver and shake while carrying her. She knew blood had always made him throw up, but she could not open her mouth to say she was sorry, she did not know it would be so much.

Days followed without the right answers, without the right questions.

One winter day, in the hollow ghostly classroom, while her eyes were lost on the white hills of the town, a hand came and gently sat on her bandaged soul. She knew he will become her lifelong friend, the teacher who taught History of Religions. A priest. The long talks, the right questions, would come to soothe her years to come. And his wrists were wearing the same mark of the wondering ones. The mark of the ones who asked too much, demanded and needed too much, the ones who had to find out what it was all about to be alive. The mark of the ones who watched their flesh cut open and smelt their yearnings flowing out of their veins. The marks of the ones who went beyond and came back with their true meaning for life.

She was feeling the scar under her fingers now, while lying down on the cold benches of the little white church at the high intersection of the roads leading to the beach. The high little windows brought in the same hot light but this time there were no cold blood drops gathering next to her, but his warm, naked body. He was holding her from behind, choking her a little bit, sweating, being inside her. All forbidden, wet and eternal, the offering on the altar.  Sin, love and kindness, just like in Heaven. Them and the echo of their half whispered words and moans. And she felt cleaned and revived each time she came out in the salty breeze. They would always meet in the one room church at noon, while the priests were off to do their Ouzo and coffee siesta on the small crumped cafeterias on the roads behind the seafront.

She was wondering how many of them wear the same scar as her and her best friend, the priest.

 

 

M.

About Nights

“Be always drunken. Nothing else matters: that is the only question. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.

Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken.

And if sometimes, on the stairs of a palace, or on the green side of a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped away from you, ask of the wind, or of the wave, or of the star, or of the bird, or of the clock, or whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks, ask what hour it is; and the wind, wave, star, bird, clock, will answer you: ‘It is the hour to be drunken! Be drunken, if you would not be martyred slaves of Time; be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will.”

Eugene O’Neill

About Oz

About Oz

“The worst stab wound is the one to the heart. Sure, most people survive it, but the heart is never quite the same. There’s always a scar, which is meant, I guess, to remind you that even for a little while, someone made your heart beat faster. And that’s a scar you can live with, proudly, all the days of your life.

People say, ‘She broke my heart.’That’s bullshit, man. The heart can’t break, it’s a muscle. Muscles tear, muscles cramp. Yeah, the heart’s a muscle. So’s the brain. So’s the dick.”

Augustus Hill

About Danï

About Danï

It must have been Heaven and Hell’s fucking child, she, born and left in that city in which a stream of Latin blood was flowing upwards. She, with her crystal skin and half whispered singing words.She, always running away from herself, her life, from chances not taken, from thoughts spoken too late, running but never being able to fully let go of anything… She, the one who understood things too soon and lived too late, in a town in which everyone came and went, to the certain lights of their lives, while she was caught in between, crying and laughing on hallways, drinking wine and saying “let’s go” more than she said “I love you”. The Purgatory child with a half glass of wine in her hand, shivering under his kisses while breathing his Italian curly hair. She knew it will be the last time she will see him, but she couldn’t say anything. Loss had haunted her, there was always another answer to the questions she believed she had answered. And all the arms that couldn’t heal…

She needed a love to survive! She needed to believe she was lost so that she could let go of some of the pain. She needed to be sleepless, so she could create. She needed to be in pieces, until a place for her was being born, somewhere in the eternal. There was nothing common, only passion, the pretty damn poetic one, the one that prolonged each story like the unbearable sweet painful twitch that prolongs the orgasm.

There was panic and peace in her beautiful face, without a word for it, the perfect shape of fearless and careless on the edge of the abyss. Thrill and comfort on her lips, strength in her cracked smoking nails carrying longings and victories. She had lived the loves of Gods. Her sorrows were eternal always waiting for someone new. Her truth was the dreams she dreamed and her death was herself. She was like the sun, setting against her own will, burning in her own flames. Colors, streets, words, deaths, desires, were all in her. Too much past sickened her, still, she held on to everything. One could see the whole fucking history of the world through her soul.

I was afraid that the ordinary life would get her one day and steal her fire…then I would be at loss too…

 

Happy Birthday beautiful one, I remembered!

M