Cool spacious cave, a few rays of light

Cool spacious cave, a few rays of light,
Shimmering pond, bubbles and mist.
Come take a look if you like.

This feeling floating in the air

This feeling floating in the air -
How can you capture something so unclear?
I think I lost you now. And I’m lost.

Without the earbuds you can hear

Without the earbuds you can hear
The birds, the footsteps of the spring, your own breaths.
Enjoy it - now.

It’s all a blur

It’s all a blur through the foggy window.
All you need to do
Is stretch your hand and wipe it off.

Thank you for what you gave me

Thank you for what you gave me,

For what you did not give me,

And for what not getting that, gave to me.

What is my real self?

My dear one and only me, what is my real self?

What do I look like when no one sees me? Happy, sad, cute, tired, insecure, wise?
How do I walk when no one is passing by? Fast or slow, with an easy or purposeful stride? Is my back straight, do my shoulders slouch, is my chin high?
What does my voice sound like when no one is hearing it? Is it shrill, whiny, deep, quiet?
What is the look in my eyes when no one is looking into them? Are they dull or sparkling, filled with tears or empty?
Would my jaw be clenched, would my breath be deep, would I smile? What would that smile be like?

What would my actions be with no one to act for?
What would I be saying when no one is listening?
What would I be feeling when there is no one to care about my feelings?
What would I be thinking when there is no one to share my thoughts with?
What would I be wanting when there is no one to grant me my wishes?
What is my essence?

What am I really like when you take the world away and it’s only me? How can I choose what I want to be in the world if I have no clue what I am without it?

Would I be so kind as to give me some of my precious time? Could I humbly ask for just a bit of my undivided attention? For this greatest pleasure and privilege of getting to know me, if only a little?

A little quantum of feeling at a time

A little quantum of feeling at a time,

in each poem,

Before the universe erupts in one continuous instant.

Dear me at 18

Dear me at 18,

I am ready to meet you.

For the first time I think you’d be glad.

Reflections in the windows at night

Reflections in the windows at night,

And in your eyes,

Where i am always beautiful.

Just enough said to stir

Just enough said to stir...

To touch the string.

For you to think that it’s for you.

Necklace of dew drops

Necklace of dew drops, not of pearls;

Its beauty is its transience.

Whose windows are reflected in the beads?

Two lines that crossed

Two lines that crossed

Can cross again

If they decide to curve.

Dullness or fear?

Dullness or fear - eyes closed to touch?

Would the time still be here

If we gave it up?

If this could ever happen

If this could ever happen

How could it be the same?

Kiss me for the time again.

Old loved melodies

Old loved melodies.

The sound is the same,

The echo changed.

Endlessly rewritten

Endlessly rewritten,

Never read.

Until you found it.

In fog, a shadow of an echo of a whiff

In fog, a shadow of an echo of a whiff.

No weight, location, volume, label;

The lightest way to feel: a memory...

How Songs Are Born

Do you know how songs are born?

There are tiny particles of feelings floating in ether, similar to water molecules that under certain conditions form clouds. These clouds of feelings are potential songs. They can be stormy songs of rage, fluffy playful songs, or perfect beautiful songs of love. Just like clouds, in this “idea” stage songs can change, morph into something new, merge or evaporate altogether.

To survive and materialize songs have to find their composers; just like potential children need to find their parents to be conceived. It’s a tough job. Good composers are in high demand. Having good parents can give a great head start in life: you will end up more melodic and harmonious, will have much higher chance to be played and heard by many and could live longer in people's’ minds. And if you are lucky enough to be composed by someone like Bach, you might become practically immortal. Why do you think good composers are so prolific? Many, many songs are vying for their attention, constantly twirling around them and fighting for a one in a million chance to be chosen. Uncountable brave ambitious songs literally vanished into thin air waiting in vain to be picked out from the crowd.

Now imagine that press of songs pushing and shoving each other to get closer to the composer. No niceties here. But the composer’s heart is locked, he’s preoccupied with his daily existence. Until something stirs inside: a memory, a feeling, creating tiny ripples and waves on the surface of the soul. An inspiration. He is ready to conceive a new song. Say the composer is in a nostalgic mood. This is the chance the nostalgic songs have been waiting for, the right wavelength! The songs compress themselves into tiny bubbles and plunge into the waves. They have to pick the right spot; a small mistake and you dissipate. And as soon as the first one’s in, the door shuts and the opportunity is gone.

But the lucky winner has been determined; the conception has finally happened. The bubble of the song is charging through the soul, leaving a strip of void behind it. Do you know that void, that craving - who knows for what? The composers fill those with songs. The vacuum sucks in more memories and emotions, and the first chords and verses appear. The labor can take minutes, days, or months. Or it can never come to fruition. Only the lucky few make it all the way: being born, sung, remembered…