About Reverie

About Reverie

Perfume comes to me

And brings me back to the years of the island where we are still

Old souls

Walking those white streets

Naked on the terrace while the coffee pot is boiling.

We are still there bathing in the smell of salt

Sweating with the sand, defining gods and skies.

We made kites from our words and dreams with our skin.

We didn’t know right or wrong

Only knew that which gave us pleasure.

We are all left with the memories we deserve.

 

M.

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About Hank

“You’ve got to be kind…”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve got to have some pity.”
“I haven’t.”
“A good man knows how to forgive.”
“I don’t.”
“You wouldn’t want me to think that you’re selfish.”
“I am.”

“But don’t I have any freedom of speech?”
“In your own house. Not in mine.”
“Don’t I have a right to my own ideas?”
“At your own expense. Not at mine.”
“Don’t you tolerate any differences of opinion?”
“Not when I’m paying the bills.”
Ayn Rand
 

About a Season

About a Season
She let loose her wide waves of dizzy hair
and filled the air with the sharp green from the bottom of the seas.
Spring came that day, in the afternoon, before sunset,
descending from the heights of her Greek contour,
White like the buds,
white like the walls of  timeless buildings,
white like the color of the calmness she puts on top of things,
lingering everywhere like the surreal color of her skin.
M.

About Pure Happiness

“In what act or thought of his has there ever been a self?
What was his aim in life? Greatness – in other people’s eyes. Fame, admiration, envy – all that which comes from others. Others dictated his convictions, which he did not hold, but he was satisfied that others believed he held them. Others were his motive power and his prime concern. He didn’t want to be great, but to be thought great. It’s his ego that he’s betrayed and given up. And isn’t that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self.
Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he’s honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he’s great in the eyes of others. The man who wants money for a personal purpose – to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury – he’s completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They’re second handers. Aren’t they all acting on a selfish motive – to be noticed, liked, admired – by others? They place others above self… in the exact manner which altruism demands. A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn’t need it!
It is so easy to run to others. It is so hard to stand on one’s own record. You can fake virtue for an audience. You can’t fake it in your own eyes. Your ego is your strictest judge. They run from it. They spend their lives running. It’s simple to seek substitutes for competence – such easy substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for competence.
That, precisely, is the deadliness of second-handers. They have no concern for facts, ideas, work. They’re concerned only with people. They don’t ask ‘Is this true?’ They ask: ‘Is this what others think is true?’ Not to judge, but to repeat. Not to do, but to give the impression of doing. Not creation, but show. Not merit, but pull. When you suspend your faculty of independent judgement, you suspend consciousness. To stop consciousness is to stop life. Second-handers have no sense of reality.
Look at everyone around us. You’ve wondered why they suffer, why they seek happiness and never find it… If any man stopped and asked himself whether he’s ever held a truly personal desire… he’d see that all his wishes, his efforts, his dreams, his ambitions are motivated by other men. He’s not even struggling for material wealth, but for the second-hander’s delusion – PRESTIGE. A stamp of approval, not his own. He can find no joy in the struggles and no joy when he has succeeded. He can’t say about a single thing: ‘This is what I wanted because I WANTED IT, not because it made my neighbors gape at me. Then he wonders why he’s unhappy. Every form of happiness is private. Our greatest moments are personal, self-motivated, not to be touched.
I think the only cardinal evil on earth is that of placing your prime concern within other man. I’ve always demanded a certain quality in the people I liked. Now I know what it is. A self-sufficient ego. I COULD DIE FOR YOU. BUT I COULDN’T AND WOULDN’T LIVE FOR YOU!”
 
Ayn Rand / The Fountainhead

About a True Story

About a True Story
We didn’t have loves and moments.
We had obsessions.
And sand between the pages of our books.
We were the lovers of the suns and moons.
We were thirsty for knowledge,
Laying down naked on the rusty white hidden beaches
Listening to the dry sounds of our tongues.
We were the dolphin gods swimming in the waters of the volcano.
Thanking history for our minds which
Gave us the courage to be proud and greater than any religion.
When we walked the empty streets of Fira, the black cats would watch us in the sun.
The heartbeat of the world was there, on the smell of your skin, lingering on the wet pavements.
When we laid in our bed, in the stone house under the mountains,
You drank my skin and it made you young again,
And, as in any trade between free people,
I got a piece of eternity in your mind instead.
Which was… Is…
The only thing worth living for on this Earth.
M.

 

About Loneliness

About Loneliness

The bursting fields of golden grain kept the last second before bending under the breeze in an eternity. Time did not exist in the Caldera air, it was only the melting August heat.

Strangers came to wash away the regrets of their unfulfilled desires, also called sins, on the yellow rocky cliffs of the island snapped in two by the volcano. It was long before the drowning of the first Atlantis.

The green of the sea hid away their lives and thoughts and made them feel reborn in a sweet fogginess. They thought they were happy for a few dropping seconds, as small as the distances between their fingers holding them together. They were so in love with this kind of lies.

At sunset, the thousand years old nun started singing the song of never ending truth, which had existed on earth when the gods lived among people. It was a song about a lost greatness.

It was a songs about the love of the mind, the love of reason.

It was a song of sorrow which made the waves withdraw, unraveling ancient ships and the ghosts of their captains. The dolphins would come from the abysses and cry with silver tears.

People leaned closer to the edges, drowning in oblivion because they couldn’t take the burden and the beauty of truth.

The walls of the untouched monastery were shaking under the golden veils of the Goddess forgotten on earth when all the gods deserted the human shores.

She was swimming with the whales in the sea of sirens and didn’t hear their call.

She would come out of the eternity of all her lives and braid her hair with the last rays of sun.

The cliffs were praying for her loneliness to cease and find someone to match her heights.

People tried to comfort her ego’s loneliness by snapping into dust at her feet and calling it love. They didn’t know that a real God doesn’t feed on sacrifice but on courage and strength and conquered cities.

She did not have the human weakness of crying. She smiled, hearing the echo of her long gone god kings.

She would stand tall, refusing to fight time, to acknowledge it, to be subdued to it. Pain was created by people, serenity by gods.

When she turned her face to the sky, the darkness that holds the universe would withdraw and those who dared to look up could see beyond stars, planets and galaxies, twirling around, dancing in a vertigo. The Earth turned naked with the purest minds walking around in their beautiful pride. Everyone was scared of such sight, walking freely in naked pride. There were no human kings left either.

She was the perfect face of carelessness facing pain. Humans hadn’t invented a word for such power, so, in their desperate abandonment, they wrote the twisted stories of gods being banished from earth. As fake substitutes, they took prayers, silences and submissions.

M.