Profound Understanding

How to feel close to someone? Offload on him... all that heaviness that weighs on you, but is empty – no content to show for all that weight. You will feel relief, rambling about all the meaningless things that you want to get off your chest. And if the someone listens patiently, without interrupting, you will get the feeling that you are understood and will feel closeness to your presumed understander.

But... you will be too busy with your unburdening to notice that he does not say anything. He nods in rhythm with his own thoughts. Had your words resonated with him in the least, he would have been eager to jump in and contribute to the conversation. And then you would have realized that he sees things very differently from you.

But you will both be so absorbed in your non-overlapping worlds that he will not mind your outpour, and you will not notice his absence. And you will feel listened to, and understood, and close... Good for you.

words... the less the better

words... the less the better.

then why am i writing this? because i want to speak with someone but have nothing to say. and not much curiosity to listen.

because if i delete this writeup, at some later point i might have this warm nostalgic feeling about it: once upon a time i wrote something so sweet and deep, oh... had only i kept it!..

or if i don't delete it, at some later point i can have a conversation with my younger self... that is, now i am speaking with my older self, and then my older self will be listening to the younger self. a mild delay but still - gratification of communication.

win win. the only loser is you, dear reader of this blog, stuck reading this. fortunately tho, no-one reads this, so you don't really exist, do you?

He stepped out into the sun.

And nothing happened.

Growing up a troll child you learn a lot of rules and prohibitions: never cross the king's path, say a special curse when you see a human, and on and on... But most importantly, never-ever go into the sunlight - it will turn you into a stone.

He no longer remembered how his transgressions started. It must have been by mistake, he must have been very small. By now he had broken many rules. At first he felt mortified, then afraid,  then naughty, then rebellious, then curious. Now he felt... nothing.

Well, at this very moment he felt a little cold, and thought that sunlight might warm him up.

He stepped out into the sun. And nothing happened. He did feel a bit warmer though, so he kept on walking. Not a stone yet. Is he a troll at all? Maybe he is an elf, a giant,  a god,  a human? And what does it mean to be one or another?  A different set of rules to follow or to break?

He had beautiful eyes. But there was no one there to look at them, into them, and to tell him. 

Tale of a stone

There was a stone. On a rocky beach between the sea and the mountains.

It observed… the changing seasons; the wind - sometimes gentle sometimes stormy; the water - sometimes sweet from the rain, sometimes salty from the waves; the seagulls sometimes landing on it.

Sometimes it remembered… for example, how a few seasons ago several grains of soil accumulated in its crevices and from them grew a few blades of grass.

It never wondered and it never pondered.

Until one day a travelling druid was passing by and sat on the stone to rest. The druid started telling the stone about the far away lands across the sea; about the different landscapes beyond the mountains; about people, and magic, and magical stones. And for the very first time the stone wondered...

The druid finished his tale and got up. He thanked the stone for being such a good listener… and then he smiled mischievously and asked, “Would you like to make a wish?” A wish? The stone had never wished before. But now… it realized that it did: it wanted to walk like the druid, to see those far away places... It did not even get a chance to fully experience that feeling of wanting, when the druid struck his magic wand and turned the stone into a man.

   -   The end    -

Hey, what happened to the stone? This cannot be the end of the stone’s tale!

Well, this is. What follows is another tale, of a man who used to be a stone.

The *est

It could have been the happiest day, the deepest insight, the best sex, the saddest song, the fastest ride, the strongest feeling.
But I was thinking, looking at the ground; you were in a hurry and did not really notice me. 

It does not have to be the *est. Good is good enough.
But when our eyes met, we absent-mindedly smiled politely and walked on. Only the tiniest pang of doubt: “Am I missing something?”

To Sadness

Dear Sadness,

Sorry, I suppose I am being ungrateful. I am all upset and whiny and craving attention, and here you are - practically chasing me. And what am I doing? Ignoring and avoiding you. Instead of appreciating your company and just being with you for a while. Do you have something to tell me? Something that would change my life? Or something funny? Or more likely sad?

Hey, why does it have to be about me? Do you simply want to be acknowledged and loved? I guess we all do.

Unfinished poem

How do you know if a poem is unfinished? Maybe that’s all it wanted to say. Or maybe it lost interest, got distracted, gave up… or still waiting for something? Maybe it likes ambiguity, leaving things open to interpretation, and it’s all by design. Would it change the way you feel?

Time is money

They measure you, allocate you, “buy” you, “borrow” you, “steal” you, trade you for money and other imaginary benefits - you, one of the few things that is unquestionably real. They think that by portioning and selling you they make themselves rich. But they are robbing themselves, because each of them could have all of you... all the time.

1 little pale star

1 little pale star... Compared to that night in the wilderness.
But then I notice more, 
Peeking shyly from behind the city-lit mist,
Quietly whispering to each other.
Then the sleepy light turns in for the night, 
And there are more of them,
Staring at me, chattering silently.
I think I recognize some.
Are you looking up?

What am I writing about?

Me, them, my feelings, my thoughts, some stranger feelings and thoughts that visit me. Sometimes they crowd around my head and I feel their presence, then often one or two manage to make their way onto paper through my hand.

Sometimes I write poems about my own stories, or stories about my own poems - these are my favorite: meta-poems, where inspiration overflows the original piece and wants more attention.

I don’t write from another’s perspective. I am a bit bothered by that fact - lack of imagination? - but it’s just not there. Maybe it’s a stage: I’ve been separated from myself for so long that I want to explore my own point of view before imagining someone else’s.

Dear disappointment,

First, I admit it: I am plagiarizing a religion. Fortunately, the copyright has expired.

Now that we got that out of the way, may I invite you to join my pantheon? See, I want to believe that you are kind to me, that you are taking care of me, even when it does not appear to be the case. It’s just easier that way. I’m so tired of fighting and avoiding you.

We’ll have a big jolly party at the top of Walhalla: you, me, fear, pain, anger, contempt, regret, hate, doubt. Maybe more folks will join later, as I dig deeper into my soul: one big happy family. We’ll get to know each other, make friends, have a feast, maybe an orgy.. Should be fun! Would you come? Please?

Want

I tend to want. Sometimes things. Mostly for things to happen.

It’s been bothering me, that I concentrate on the object of my desire and don’t notice other things.

But then those other things can sneak up on me, completely unexpected, and catch me by surprise. Boo! No time to mentally prepare, develop expectation or, God forbid, desires… Only pure perception - the most gratifying of them all.

Thinking about that, I think I want to want.

To you who love me

Before, I wanted you to need me. To be afraid to lose me. To give up everything for me just to show me that you couldn’t imagine your life without me. Because I needed your love to feel good about myself.

I don’t need that anymore. Now I don’t want you to need me.

I want you to want me. Among other things that you want. I don’t want this love to limit or burden you - I want you to enjoy it. If I am away, I want you to know that you still have me.

I want you to be proud that I choose to love you. That I can love you. It doesn’t happen often, you know.

To a moment

I will forget you, I think.

And I thank you. For offering yourself to me for my consideration. For not having any claims on me, on my memory.

No need to name names, to call you boring, unremarkable, unmemorable. No need to blame myself for not being observant, attentive, for not finding deeper beauty in you beyond the first unimpressive impression.

We part ways as friends, soon-to-be forgotten could-have-been friends.

To time again

It’s been only days since I realized that I never loved you. Since for the first time I spoke to you and not about you. And look at us now: so happy in love. They say time heals. Seems like you did indeed. That was fast!

And right away, as soon as we’ve established this new intimacy, I have all my wishes rising up: can you take me to that night in the desert, to that storm, to… No, I am not going to ask for anything. I will give you a chance to surprise me.

I will trust that you love me too and will give me something good. And if I fail to see that good, I will take a second look. And if I can’t convince myself after all, I will try to act like a loving parent, whose little kid just made a big mess: I will sigh, and ask you not to do it again, and shrug, and clean it up, as kindly as I can. Maybe you could help me with the cleanup?

And if you seem too slow, I will not get angry, because you are giving me some of yourself. Isn’t that something to cherish? I will pause and thank you for the chance to look around and possibly notice something new.

And if you rush, I will go for a jog with you – I could use some exercise. Or maybe I will just let you carry me away, savor your embrace and enjoy the ride.

It feels so good right now that I want you to stop and stand still. Will we always be in such perfect harmony? They say time will tell. What will you tell me, my dear?

To time

We are always moving at different speeds: when I want to slow down, you rush; when I want to move on, you dawdle. We are always out of sync: I want to be alone, and you bring company; I am looking for a distraction, and it’s just me… and you… oh… so… slow…

I just realized that I’ve always been looking for ways to trick you, to manipulate you, to control your pace. I never accepted you as you are. I never loved you. Is that why we don’t get along? Or do I not love you because we don’t get along? Can you help me learn to appreciate you?

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?

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…