In Writing
From the personal to the communal—from scribbles to verse to documentation.
The Gatecrasher in Days
for Coreia Publication, Portugal
It has been precisely one thousand eight hundred and ninety days since our toxic relationship so abruptly began. An uninvited entity crashed into the core of my being, sinking deep into the cells that make up my body.
In The Divided Mind, John E. Sarno describes trauma shock not primarily as a physical injury, but as a psychophysiological event—an interaction between the mind, the autonomic nervous system, and the body. In other words, the mind perceives overwhelming threat, the brain activates the autonomic nervous system—the fight-or-flight response. Oxygen deprivation follows, emotional repression occurs simultaneously, and the body becomes the distraction. Physical symptoms are used to divert attention away from the threatening emotions. When this emotional conflict remains unresolved, the pattern can become chronic.[1]
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Four hundred and seventy-nine days ago, in a conversation with the renowned physician Gabor Maté, I spoke about the chronic pain in my spine, and my long journey through a multitude of therapists, healers, and scholars—a journey that had, by then opened for me the world of trauma healing. I told him about my late diagnosis of chronic PTSD and the psychotherapy that came long overdue, years after the trauma itself had occurred.
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In Waking the Tiger, Peter A. Levine, who developed Somatic Experiencing in the late 1960s, describes trauma as the result of incomplete biological defensive responses, leaving the nervous system stuck in a flight, fight or freeze state.[2] I asked Dr. Maté about this frozen pain and what I might do to help myself integrate it.
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He asked me what I did for it and I said, “Well I try to dance.”
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At that moment, I saw a smile form on his lips and a gentle sway in his body. “Well,” he said, “keep dancing—it has helped people heal for centuries.”
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Nine hundred and eighty-four days ago, coerced into leaving my hometown for a diasporic life in what was once called the free world, I did so with the intention of creating the final chapter of my 2016 trilogy—Prelude, Damnoosh, and Narges. It took months to reconnect with my body, to identify the many frozen particles lodged in my fascia, and to learn to distinguish between pain and possibility.
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[1] Sarno, J. E. (2006). The divided mind: The epidemic of mindbody disorders. HarperCollins.
[2] Levine, P. A. (1997). Walking the tiger: Healing trauma. North Atlantic Books.
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Read More here.
Mina Mohseni for MARDOM
Through The Darkening, We Glean
for Tanz Quartier Wien Zine
The second edition of the TQW zine is inspired by Shab-e Yalda – the Persian celebration of the winter solstice – and is a constellation of voices circling the same fire on the longest night of the year. The publication weaves together writings, poems, paintings, and images into a collective tapestry that seeks to bring light into darkness. The launch event is an invitation to gather to read, sing, and move through shared sensations and imagery that keep us close. TQW zine#2 is co-curated and co-edited by Bita Bell and Sina Saberi, in collaboration with editorial and graphic designer Peter Oroszlány.
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Christian Sleiman
Caregiving The Movement, Side Steps In The Den
for TURBA - The Journal for Global Practices in Live Arts Curation
In March 2013, when I left my desk job at the United Nations High Commissioner
for Refugees in Tehran, I did so out of a simple need to contribute more empathy
to the world and, well, do something a bit more humanitarian, if you will. In the
mind of a twenty-four-year-old, changing the world and making it a better place
does not really sound all that grand of an undertaking. Only a few weeks into the
antidepressants prescribed by my mother’s trusted psychiatrist upon leaving my
job, I realized that my body was frozen and my psyche numbed. Time and again,
an abrupt encounter with the self took me back to my roots in the written word,
the world of make-believe, for want of a better word. I gathered myself slowly but
surely on stage, in my body, long lost to a never-appeasing sense of not-knowing.
The curiosity took me on many adventures across the twisted roads of mountainous
Tehran and beyond—from no-name theater classes led by ambitious young makers
to workshops by renowned performers and even singing rock. In July 2013, I ended up on Niavaran Cultural Center’s theater stage in drag, portraying a part of myself that I could not otherwise have been. I would glide across that stage as my skirt would billow with every turn. Many stage nights after that, sometime in 2014, I found myself in a rehearsal space literally two levels beneath the ground somewhere in the center of Tehran. This was an audition for Atefeh Tehrani’s Pina-in-Greek-waters, (Cafe) Lethe, a so-called physical theater piece for eight performers. By entering this river of oblivion, I had in fact entered a forsaken realm, forbidden even, although not in so many words.
Read more here.
Mostafa Kazemi Motlaq for MaHa Dance Projects
Gratwanderung
Interview on TANZ magazine by Katrin Ullmann
Auf Kampnagel in Hamburg hat er eine Art zweites Zuhause auf Zeit gefunden: Der Choreograf Sina Saberi, aufgewachsen in Iran, engagiert sich für Zeitgenössischen Tanz, der in seiner Heimat buchstäblich ein Schattendasein führt – politisch nicht wohlgelitten. Saberis Arbeiten wurden auf internationalen Festivals von Beirut über Hellerau bis Paris gezeigt. Sein jüngstes Werk «Basis for Being» lädt das Publikum zu einer Zeitreise ein: 1991, eine House Party in Teheran mit außergewöhnlichen Gästen.
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Das feinstoffliche Stück hat Saberi als Residenzkünstler von K3 – Zentrum für Choreographie auf Kampnagel entwickelt und im Mai uraufgeführt. Ein Grund mehr, sich dort mit ihm zu treffen.
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Sie wurden 1988 in Teheran geboren und sind in den 1990er- und 2000er-Jahren in Iran aufgewachsen. Wann und wie sind Sie zum Tanz gekommen?
Ich habe die Darstellenden Künste für mich relativ spät, erst 2013 entdeckt. Vorher habe ich als Lehrer und 2012 auch für die UN gearbeitet. Aber ich war so frustriert von diesem Bürojob und auch vom Ethos bei der UN, dass ich anfing, Performance-Kurse zu besuchen. Natürlich erfuhr ich dabei aber nie, dass es unter den Darstellenden Künsten auch etwas gibt, das sich ...
Read more here.
Oncu Gultekin for basis for being نرگس
Breaking Away
for Movement Research Performance Journal
as Abisa Serin
From a merely somatic point of view, my body was attacked by an external agent which knew very well how to creep inside and settle for some time; that time for me was twenty-seven months and counting…
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After a seven-year journey of observing the body every single day, and following the movement wherever it would take you, shaking away the self, so that you are left with only the essence which makes you and the dance. The manifestation of your distillment, the bare gist of your many trans-formations being realized through the simplicity of a body in movement; timelessly present.
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Yes, one day it all came to a very abrupt end; only because someone had the malicious audacity to make that happen; bringing movement into stillness. But it wasn’t only stillness, for nothing would ever be calm or uninterrupted after this...
Read more here.
Self Portrait
In Conversation with Fatih Genckal
for DOTE Magazine
What do you see happening with you and around you since the beginning of home confinement?
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Sina Saberi 25 Apr 2020 20:33​
Dear Fatih,
Thank you for this. I will start by answering the first question:
When it started, things were a bit scary and uncertain. I had plans set out until August and one by one they crumbled. Mostly I was worried about the economy of my already precarious life, but also about my long-distance relationship which would now face distance and separation more than it did before. I felt a lot of sorrow and was feeling inclined to fall into some kind of depression and absurdity. For a few days I even did, until one day I decided not to let that happen and found ways to motivate myself every day. I started by making a Yazdi cake which is a traditional Iranian cake for my sister in law who was in her third trimester. The cake came out awesome and I decided to make one every few days in order to perfect it. Now I make a pretty decent Yazdi cake and life goes on. I have gotten more patient since the beginning of it all and even tough I face frustration at least once every few days if not every day, I try to offer myself care. I haven’t always been doing that. Many new things came out of this period actually.
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Fatih Genckal 26 Apr 2020 13:55
Read more here.
Sina Saberi for Glimpses of a Future, YARAQA
Always Contextualize
with Ana Vujanović
The book is the result of a theoretical experiment initiated within Practice (Made in Yugoslavia) platform in cooperation with 10 curators of different dance festivals and programmes. The participants were Gigi Argyropoulou, curator of several festivals in Athens; Florian Malzacher, curator of the Impulse Festival in Dusseldorf; Sina Saberi, curator of the festival in Tehran; Christa Spatt, curator of Tanzquartier in Vienna; Agnes Quackels, artistic director of the Buda Arts Centre in Kortrijk, Ana Janevski, curator for performance and new media of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York, Dragana Alfirević, curator of Ko-Festival in Ljubljana, Anastasya Proshutinskaya, dance curator of the ZIL Cultural Centre in Moscow, Biljana Tanurovska Kjulavkovski, curator of the Platform programme in Skopje and Marijana Cvetković, curator of the Kondenz Festival in Belgrade.
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Read more here.
Mitra Ziaee Kia, by Qazale Sedaqat for MaHa "body movement" Festival #1
Gnossienne No. 1
September 2017
The cup I dropped
The water spilled.
Made me think of
When it brimmed;
Pink of yours
And all azure
Golden rays
In hazel locks.
Fingers played
But also Layed;
Love upon this lust,
Breeze upon this soul.
The cup I dropped
And nothing spilled;
Made me think of
When we poured.
Brimmed and rimmed
And rummaged
Poured until
Devoured.
Self Portrait
Lethe
January 2017
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Simply because this was one of the most intensely significant experiences of my life, I thought about sharing parts of it with you.
The journey began back in 2013 with constant echoes of these thoughts: What is movement? Do I know my body? Do I belong to this realm? Why am I doing this? What are we all trying to achieve? Is this a need or perhaps just another way to be?
My first inspiration for movement was the Greek myth of Poseidon. Coming from the world of Literature, I had already countless images from the God of the Sea and the dark world he’s associated with. I delved into this world of darkness and duality and it was already too late to detach from this Underworld of “concealment”.
The next assignments was to delve into dark moments of my childhood, to dig deep through the repression, touch upon the complexes and experience these notions through movement. At the time, the intention behind it all was simply to be part of this fascinating world that is expression through embodiment, but then came severe moments of ache and outflow of mindful pain. This felt so intense on my soul and I knew, if I were to keep moving in this path, I needed to remain aware, alert and awake.
Days passed by, weeks, bruises, months (twenty one to be precise!)
What happens to us when we go through such long periods of creative engagement in a piece that deals with so much darkness? A gloom that is projected from the reality of our actual dailiness; our daily life. This was on my mind time and again throughout the intensity. Were we simply reflecting the shadows or were we at least retaining some light, some shimmering hope?
The piece faced rejection last January when it was performed it in front of the jury that decides on permissions for Fajr International Theater Festival where we had initially hoped for the show to premier. I can just recall a certain feeling of awe and emptiness when this occurred. For us not to be able to share this extensive process with an actual audience after a little under two years of constant effort in communicating something that needed to be communicated was extremely discouraging and like a wet slap in the face.
We had to take all the pain, all the repression which was already out, back inside, down to the Underworld where it had come from and put a lid on it all for god only knew how long. To repress the repressions was a rather challenging experience. There was a one year gap in which many things happened; people’s paths diverged far from that of one another as well as from Lethe and we became victims of the forgetfulness we had started with; only this time, the object had become us.
When I got a call from our director, Atefeh Tehrani, about the possibility of the show going on the most renowned theater venue of Tehran (City Theater of Tehran) late summer, I had a very hard time saying yes to still being part of it. I was not sure if I would want to go through the pain once more and re-live those emotions and let them flow through my limbs for over 30 consecutive nights! You see, in Tehran when you do a show, you do it for at least one month.
This meant, 30 nights of exposing some of the most intricate wounds of childhood to a general public, hoping for healing powers in drama to nurse these wounds and transfer the positive through the pain. It ultimately became a state of being, an intention for movement.
There were other aspects to this project which made it impossible to say no to, despite the severe mental and physical pressure which it entailed. The fact that it was a particularly “physical” piece that normally doesn’t make it to a public stage in Tehran would be number one.
The fact that this director had not been able-due to circumstances-to create for over 5 years and that this made Lethe a great contribution to the avant-garde presence of drama in Tehran was number two.
The fact that THIS is considered a certain point in a certain collective map in a certain timeline is number three.
And last, the fact that a collective mind had put their souls, sweat and blood in creating something which had been imagined at some point, by the same collective mind and needed to live its life.
Lethe became a resting place for all the tension, tears and trouble. The forgetfulness helped me remember that there are so many reasons to stay alive and live among the living. I no longer feel forgotten nor forgetful.
Lethe helped me remember.
by Alborz Teymoorzadeh
Ganymede
December 2015
Your thoughts of thanatopsis-
Exuberance, fatigue,
Go gather in a bundle; many-toned.
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On a day-not far from this-
Hoist it unfurled-
A thousand-colored, many-pieced sail.
Set out to the sea, Ulysses.
To the wind and-
Sail away.
Move with the wind and Lay.
Make love with the wind and sow.
Stay with the wind, Give all!
Let the breeze-
Be sieved in through your cells,
Leave you absolutely light.
Bare-feet,
Upon the surface-
Of the ocean.
No fear,
No death,
Begrudged.
For barefoot were we born;
In every bivouac-
Renamed:
To our pain,
Our deprivation,
Our love and to our tears.
Each time-
Emerges a new air,
Man afresh.
To walk with death-
With none of dread.
Shamelessly disrobed.
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Composed in Farsi by Minoo Abtahi, Recreated in English by Sina Saberi
Self Portrait
Death
July 2015
The monster is my friend,
Byronic hero is my love,
All filth I can behold;
And desires I can quench.
My sympathy for lust,
This schizophrenic love,
All tendency for bile-
Feels far from bizarre.
Eccentric is my name;
I’ve accepted me that way.
Except for one or two-
Of my many many selves.
I’m the liar whom to eyes-
Of yours does lie with ease.
I’m the angel who has wings-
You can’t see; it’s very dark.
I’m a thief, your trust I steal-
The moment that you blink.
I’m the masked man-
A plentiful of masks!
I’m selfish as narcissus,
And lonely as a cloud-
Whose fate is buried deep-
In Poseidon’s darkened realm.
I’m the magic that there is;
In drops of blood & waxing moons.
I’m the ominous attendant-
Of this epoch of beguile.
This life of mine, this lie-
It’s time I threw in fire.
This me on end I’ve dragged-
It’s time I dropped and died.
It’s a legacy of awe,
Forgetfulness of fish.
It’s piracy of hope,
It’s not real, nor is it not.
Self Portrait
Patience
May 2014
You will leave, when it’s time.
Not a single second soon.
You will see what you will see.
Not a single scene left out.
You will be with whom you will.
Not a single soul would fade.
It’s a story that’s been told-
Upon centuries on end.
It’s been written someplace else-
Where we’ve never ever known.
It’s a telos, so-called fate!
Something doubt cannot attain.
Can you see beyond the seas?
Can you capture something true?
The ocean’s draught; the fire’s cold-
Is that something you could feel?
The weaves of thunder, silent waves-
Are they things you can behold?
A naked soul, a loving heart-
Would you leave right at the door?
If you knew it were tomorrow-
Would you leave it all aside?
That which pained your every second;
That which tore apart your hope?
Would you smile upon the lies-
That you’ve told, you will have told?
Would you be what you have been-
That you have hidden, have not shown?
Can you breathe upon this breeze-
That is here this very moment?
Can you see that which is present-
This thing that’s to be seen?
Will you be with me this second-
Will you leave right now? It’s time.
Self Portrait
Aim
April 2014
An abundance of wishes,
A brilliance of hope,
Enslaved-
In fortresses of thought.
At some point I this realized:
I’m lost among the moments,
The blissfulness of kisses-
That yesterdays beheld.
I’m dazed amongst the yous-
That used to be my self;
My selves, the many selves
This I feel I wrote before?
But I also have my secrets
My tales of ‘you don’t know’,
‘you wouldn’t ever know”, as well as-
“You shall never know.”
I’m shadows too,
And darkened dare.
Blatant will.
Scorching burn.
Don’t you see the sparks-
Which glide upon my cheek?
Can you truly not them see?
Let me fade: out and away;
I have lingered here for long.
Let me break: out and apart;
Here I’ve stayed for very long.
This journey needs to travel-
To the land of ever new.
This bundle of days back
Shall be thrown in deepest blue.
The seas shall then revolt;
Outburst and overflow…
They shall thrust into the known;
Make it unknown,
“Have never known”.
And I shall drown into the present;
Which is yet to be discovered,
Ever felt.
It’s me I shall uncover and make known
This Life I need to live;
This breeze I have to breathe.
This freedom I shall fight for-
And set free.
Self Portrait
Daydreaming Light
October 2013
We all get interrupted
With the interludes of Life
Interruption or eruption
Some corruption and some Love
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We all do face the darkness
Sometimes darkness could be light
All this darkness-
Shall bring with it of Life
Don’t you worry little boy;
Insecurity’s a bitch!
You’re a man; you are woman
All those woes do make you man
All the pain, your oozing tears
Shall make you misbehave someday
And that’s a good thing little boy
Cause it makes you misbehave
And when you do that little boy-
A little man’s made out of you
A little man, a tiny man
A man who’s minuscule
But don’t you worry little man
I’m also man, a little man-
Who’s ever lost in loss for words
Who’s ever loss; to all his thoughts
A little man, a little boy
A little woe as well as man
Yet I walk on all these paths
And I talk through all the wrath-
Till I’m left with none of woes
With none of words, with none of wrath
Till I’m intertwined with love
With none of loss; with none of rust
Yes I walk it; all the way!
Don’t look at cars when you’re in traffic
Look at skies, the bluest skies
They go gray before you know it
And so what if they went gray?
Or even black; the darkest act!
Black brings with it of rain
Darkness isn’t ever filled with pain
Take it off; your shadow, shoe and shawl
Your miracle’s at hand
It’s in your hand, comes through your heart
All you’ve ever dreamt of Light
Self Portrait
Sonia's Legacy
July 2013
Upon having my very first theatrical experience on stage, I felt the need to share the experience with my readers here. The play was an adaptation of “House Painters Have No Memories” by Dario Fo. I played the role of Sonia in the play. We had added notions of sexual duality & identity in this role which for me alone held much meaning. Hope you enjoy:
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Who Sonia was, I mean the real Sonia: the one who would put aside all her worries & concerns, the one who’d rush towards the stage and jump on it and start changing into clothes which would otherwise deconstruct her and turn her into who she might have been, who she could have been, who she would be and who she truly was. she would bear much stress and make sure no one sees that she is changing into other clothing and yet she would ever blatantly face the audience and put on that lip stick and leave.
What men knew of women as well as that which women knew of men; Sonia was aware of both. Sonia knew very well how it felt to be a woman; she knew how to be a man also. she had been both; for as long as one eternity. she could feel the pain of being misunderstood as well as the ache of not being understood at all. this playful being would take pleasure in speaking through the silence, to and for those who might possibly hear her out. she spoke to her own self, she spoke to me and to you also. she expressed duality and the inevitability of all souls which are too big for this world. Sonia was a poly-personage who would at many points manage to unify all those persons into one single form: Sonia, regardless of sexuality, sexual identity and gender.
A mere point of interest emerges when i point out the fact that despite the variety and versatility in who she was, the other characters would accept her as “Sonia” and would try to have communication with her, if even very short-lived and perishable. the reason for that must have been the fact that she was real whatever she was, she knew of her purpose and she was determined. she had long let go of all the fears which would at any point hinder who she was.
I personally learned much from the presence which was Sonia. she would come to life around 9:00 pm every night for one month. she would be regardless of all that has bothered us; she had merely one purpose; to be and to fulfill her purpose: being Sonia. she taught me of assurance, of independence & heartfelt decisions which would only glorify her as an individual. she knew when to be sweet, when to be absolutely mad and when to suddenly burst into tears and then instantly burst out laughing. she taught me that you can be whatever you wish to be; you may define and redefine who you are; you may construct and deconstruct your own character.
What we could-if we really really wanted to-learn from Sonia, is the fact that situations, colors, clothing, gender, sexual identity & the people we encounter do not define us; they do not give us meaning about who we are. the mirror which Sonia held as she moved around the stage every night taught me all that. at times she would look into the mirror and see herself, at times who would look into it to communicate with others and at times the audience would see through the mirror. we are who we are, mirrors or no mirrors. but that inner mirror inside of us, the one that resembles our true self, that’s the one that needs looking into. that’s the one which would bring about self discovery at the end of the day when every single soul has failed us, when circumstances have turned us into dust, when nothing else has truly helped. there we are, the real Sonias waiting to break out all boundaries and emerge as a true self, filled with the magic of Life…
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To Sonia who shall forever live.
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Self Portrait
Marcel
January 2013
Marcel had never been a big fan of suicide, even though-at this point in his life-all situations, all the many thoughts in his head came down to only one thing: jumping off that window the view of which he enjoyed every day and to end it then and there. But Marcel knew much better than that; he knew that jumping off that window would not really be then end of what he felt needed closure. No, jumping off would only be to him, a temporary alleviation of this recurring pain they had labeled as Life.
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His problem was the memories he had never had from certain phases of his childhood. Only fragments, bits and pieces which didn’t help at all. He needed to have a childhood in his heart; something to cling to every now and then and feel good about. He like all people, really needed a childhood. But every time he looked back, he would realize how little there was to hold onto. For instance, he didn’t remember any of his childhood birthdays, except for the one he had repeatedly caught on video tape; the one in which the camera man had found the antics of a distant cousin of his in that ugly pink woolen dress more interesting than filming Marcel on his own birthday. In that video, in the few moments that Marcel could see himself, he had noticed time and again the look of discontent in his eyes. As if the situation had beguiled him, betrayed him in a way; as if life had been a liar all along. To a three-year old, this could be quite a burden.
All he could remember of his childhood were those moments of curiosity. Those moments that always made him end up in less-than-pleasant situations. Alone, on the piano seat, next to him someone uttering these words: “put your hand right here.” And another angry voice coming from the other side: “put your hand fucking where”?! A voice telling him: “lie down.” and he doing it simply because he had been told to do so. Indeed, he had been a submissive individual all his life; a slave to the choice of others who made him uncertain of his own. This had hurt him all along and today more than ever. He thought he used to be much stronger as that child whose childhood he couldn’t- for the life of him-recall. He thought he had helped that child heal at some point, but turns out that little child had gone through much more to be healed this easily if at all.
He was writing to Marcel today for Marcel, hoping he could somehow reach out to a memory in the past of a soul whose whole existence had been scattered through the realm of his many lost moments. He thought perhaps his words could trace back the many tears which had never been shed; his many moments of suffocated silence, present in the lost look he could now see in photographs from those days or even in the mirror at times.
Marcel’s thoughts yet lingered as he lied there on his bed, as good as dead, with a severe case of restless blues. The window which beheld the most amazing view he had ever seen was the only source of interest to him these days. It was in a way calling him. He listened. All he could hear was: “come. Jump. Be free.” But Marcel knew better than that. Marcel had nothing to lose and yet-
He was not afraid of losing himself, but of losing this bitter sensation in which he had invested for as long as he could remember. This lifetime though had not ever been bitter; it hadn’t all been tears and pain. Those scarce moments of joy, he longed for and desired. He closed his tearful eyes and tried to reach out for the universe. He asked the universe to embrace his shattered soul; his severed being…
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The universe replied none. It was just his own voice that echoed back to him:
“You’re not going to do it. You are a survivor and this pain is not eternal. This too, shall pass and you know it. You know it very well. You know what powerful you hold. You are a creator. Go be alive."
Marcel kept living.
Self Portrait
Mending Memories
December 2012
A night in the land where the aftertaste of possibility lingers every living moment and the breeze of change is flowing every second all around you, through your hair... A night where the many Buddhas of wisdom gather around you, there in the candlelit halls of mystic euphoria where the cold bottle of Peroni felt against your fingers only seems like a deal-breaking contrast for the circumstances at hand, but where your heart has reign and is taking all control so that all the paradox in world wouldn’t interrupt this harmony. On a night like that, you are mingling among all the strangers, and yet it all feels very familiar: this moment, this feeling, this oneness which is ever present.
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On this very moment you lie on the many cushions of comfort there under the violet reflections of the shimmers of the chandeliers and you journey into your present legacy. You are sitting here, enwrapped in all this peace. Where have you come from, you ask yourself. The stranger beside you hears the question you have asked yourself and is waiting for your answer which isn’t exclusively yours. So you open your heart, and your lips follow.
You go back to the very beginning. You remember the child: that vulnerable, uncertain little state of not knowing the first thing about anything; The thought of him breaks your heart instantly and tears gather where they often have. This is no time for them to flow.
Gulps and tears away, just as a significant amount of wax has travelled into light and non-existence, only then you come back to where you were; no longer the child and not yet the man. Right there, next to a stranger who has heard the story of the child, under the influence of that last drop, your heart feels listless and then calm.
You leave the stranger and walk among the many Buddhas of wisdom. Only now, you don’t feel like they are necessarily all that wise to begin with. They are what they are: some meticulously carved pieces of stone, all polished and nice. You seek their soul, you look for the reason behind this healing sensation. You walk into the many halls. This place is a labyrinth indeed. You find yourself in the very last hall there is, also adorned with the many Buddhas. You walk in. You feel some light somewhere in the corner; It’s a mirror. You look into it. You see your many faces. You feel much love for all those selves and capture this moment somewhere inside.
The night offers much promise; because you have earned the power of letting go. You have loved the pain and the tears of the little boy. You have cherished the heartbreak and the scars of his little soul. You have given so much love to the little thing, that only light is to be reaped from all that's sown. You indulge in the mystery of your own love; the only love which you’ve ever been after. The only love you shall ever receive in return for your giving. The same love you have learnt to share with every single soul in this universe. You are filled with it: much hope, much light. This joy which you cannot ever be deprived of. You are insatiable.
Self Portrait
Chalant
February 2012
A day at the beach-a day with much hope, promise and life in the air. My bare skin caressed by the hot sand and the sun touching every part of me, holding my soul in its warm embrace. I look afar at the ocean and he’s playing with the sand grains. Its naughty waves jumping for joy every single second, expressing all tones of green and blue in a gradient never seen before. My body well rested on the warm sand not wanting to move at all, simply dabbing at every single moment of this stillness.
​
Voices come from a little bit to the right; my eyes seek the source. The voices are filled with certain energy. My eyes spot first a little girl; a toddler with braided golden pigtails, very rosy cheeks-a bit burnt from the scorching sun-in a very pink swimsuit. Her eyes are a magical shade of blue. They resemble some of the more delightful shades of the ocean. Her little thighs and forearms all covered in a layer of red orange, also sunburnt by the sizzling all around. In this sun, she’s having a hard time keeping her tiny blue eyes open. Sitting on the sand, she’s making a small golden castle. Every so often she touches the sand to make sure every corner is nice and firm; she’s doing it with such determination and seems very thrilled about it. She adjusts some green ornaments on the castle and now from afar I can see a euphoric combination of gold, pink, ocean green and the inevitable shade of blue from above.
There’s also this woman nearby. She checks on the little girl every now and then; her skin all tanned and enwrapped in a chocolate swimsuit, she walks on the sand just as the wind comes to bring more flow to the already lively scene at the beach. At times she walks a bit further away, but she always comes back to check on the little girl. At some point she bends down, reaches inside an olive-green beach bag and takes out a plastic pack. from the distance I can see it; that opaque shade of red, seeking life, resting in the pack. Her slender fingers go inside and pick the first drop of joyous red out; a very blissful strawberry-opaque no more-comes out and the woman very smoothly takes a bite. I can see how the expression on her faces shifts into bliss. She moves towards the little girl who is still engaged with the golden castle and offers her the strawberry. First unaware of the situation she doesn’t reply, but then spotting the sudden rush of red, her eyes widen and with her tiny rosy lips she also takes a bite. She jumps up and down in place.
The all-warming sun and the mad-yet-managed waves of blue green rush a little more than before through the blue of the sky and the golden of the sand. They are playing a game. Just like the new kid at school who’s watching from afar, monitoring every single move of the gang of children who are playing a game, I am looking at the waves, wishing to be a part of whatever it is that they are doing. I move, stand on my feet and walk towards the ocean. The waves are calling me. I hear them through the breeze as I walk under the sun, my skin burning with its heat, tiny drops of water dotted all over. My feet touch the wet sand; it’s very cold and refreshing. A rush of cold starts from my feet and flows all over my body. I don’t hesitate. I’m there to play a game. I take the first step into the ocean and the waves embrace me. My steps are quicker by the second, ankle-deep, knee-deep, thigh-deep, waist deep and then I’m suddenly pulled up by the first wave. A bit to my left, a big guy with very little silver hair is also playing a game. He waits for the waves to come and once they are close enough, he jumps through them and every single time he does that, he shouts with joy and screams something out into the air. Once or twice I hear him shout “Blimey”. We make eye contact and he smiles at me, as if welcoming me to the game he seems to be enjoying very much. I try to indulge in the moment just as much as he seems to be doing. No stranger to the ocean, I let the waves and their flow take over. I jump through the waves, I swim alongside the flow. I feel as light as a feather, as free as a bird, as satisfied as I have ever been. I feel happy. I feel joy. I can’t stop smiling for some reason. This joy, this excitement, this feeling of overwhelm fills my soul with a certain something that I have never ever known of; it’s a feeling that feels familiar and then estranges me at the same time.
​
It is panic. All my being is filled with panic. I look ahead, I see more waves. I turn back; I can no longer see the big guy. I can see that he is very far away. The waves take me further on, through more waves, just endless waves and water. I feel weightless; then I feel heavy. I feel like I can’t swim any longer. All my muscles feel ache, pain and empty. I look up because I feel the absence of a certain force. Yes, the sun is visible no longer. It’s blocked by a very massive black cloud. The breeze has turned into a cold wind that makes me tremble. The waves are bigger than before and more forceful and violent. The ocean is a villain; not an old friend any longer. The group of children-every single one of them-has rejected me. They do not want me to be part of this game any longer. I am scared. I need to survive. I want to live. I try to swim back towards the shore but I’m not a very good swimmer. I think to shout for help and cry, but I know I’m too far from anyone to be heard. I’m separated, lonely and an alien more than ever. The harmony of nature is lost in that very moment. I feel detached and very much alone. I swim and try to move my trembling limbs. I swim for minutes which linger unto hours and then I don’t move forward. I am doomed to be still. I’m destined to stand in one place. Yes, the waves always bring me back to that place where all the panic started. The waves don’t let me go. I am afraid. I try to swim underneath the waves but the silence under the water fills me with more darkness and fear. I swallow some salty water and start coughing. I know that the end is near. I don’t shed a tear. I don’t cry. I think to myself: “This is the end. This could be the beginning. This is how I meet death. I am ready.”
I was thinking those thoughts and at the same time I could hear a voice within. This voice was very low. It was distant and almost like a mantra, it kept repeating. Something like fight back or hope or even Life. I really never could make out the words; not sure even if it was a sentence, a phrase or simply a word. But it somehow made me swim once more. It did fill me with something I can’t really put my finger on. And then, my big toe touched something: sand.
Yes, somehow, my feet touched the sand once more. I don’t know how it happened but it propelled me to swim some more. There still was a very long way to the shore, but at least I knew it wasn’t all that deep anymore. I would touch the bottom with my feet and jump and swim and run fly toward the shore. The shore seemed like a promise at hand. All of a sudden it was once more waist-deep and then thigh-deep, knee-deep, ankle-deep and then my skin was detached from the ocean. I crashed into the sand and fell on my face and could only gasp and breathe for air. I couldn’t get enough of it. I coughed, gasped and cried. I couldn’t get hold of what had just happened. it was...
I felt the warmth of the sun on my back once more- as if trying to wake me from a nightmare which the dark clouds had brought upon. I turned on my side and looked around. The little girl with the golden castle was playing still. The woman was walking around; checking up on her every now and then. The colors were still the same: pink, green, golden, blue and green. Once more I lied on my back and could very gradually feel the warmth of the sand underneath. At that moment the big guy passed and showed me a thumb up saying: “it was a good one”. I didn’t really know what he meant, but I looked at him, smiled and for some reason said: “yes, it really was”.
When I heard those words inside my head, I suddenly felt like I knew what I meant. In an alternate universe, I suppose I did meet my death, the waves took me into oblivion and yes, I died. I flew regardless of my pain and panic. I flew. Here though, I was still lying on the sand, the sun still my friend and golden castles still being built, strawberries still being fed and Life still in motion.
Self Portrait
On A Winter Night
January 2012
It was snowing in the winter cold of the night. As the many snowflakes were falling down, ever so silently, one could only observe their solitude as much as their scattered dance in midair; Such bizarre combination of nostalgia and mystery; something as old as history and as refreshing as time. The whirling ooze of a frost would make one’s fingers curl and leave them with that frozen feeling of frost bite itch; the darkness, so still and mischievous, holding a reign so tightly over the night.
​
The room was warm enough since it had been positioned right above the heating room; besides, it was small enough to stay warm during such cold periods of the year. Not much furniture could be seen in the room, except for the basics; or things which they would consider as the basics anyways. She was locked up in the only other room in the place: the restroom. She was feeling restless and bitter, in pain and awfully full of sorrow. Her heart was paining and her soul could not bear it any longer; so she just opened the bathroom door, passed the figure lying lazily on the floor—now half asleep—and hurried outside once she had grabbed her heavy woolen coat.
The house was big enough. Or as some would see it, at least a tad bigger than enough; quite spacious one might suggest. The fire was making crackling sounds now and then while casting this warm glow all over the tall walls. One could sense the smell of something cooking in the kitchen stove. It smelt like a warm house on a winter night. And it was snowing outside; one could stand by the window for some time and just observe the billion snowflakes which would make their journey from heaven to these surroundings. The street looked as if it held a massive secret or a minor mystery for the least. The thick snow on the asphalt promised hardship for those who would walk the miles near or far. One would be grateful to have been inside a warm house, by the fire, by the window.
The older woman—a mother—opened the door and asked her in. she rushed horridly inside, shaking and trembling; her lashes under two small piles of white powder and her arms, put inside her side pockets holding the shrug of her weak shoulders. She sat quietly by the fire, without taking off her coat. I wasn’t there to listen or to see what she had to say or do. But eventually I came in and once I entered, the first thing which drew my attention was the nomad’s blindingly bright azure and gold scarf glowing against the fire glow; such contrast it made with her jet black hair and her darkened face. Sorrow was all over her face and I could hear her deafening silence very eloquently; as if all her pain was being enunciated somewhere among the crackling sounds of the fire. She sat there, quietly, for hours on end, looking into the never-ending tales of the fire, flickering right through her eyes, burning and turning into warmth and ash.
The mother was standing by the windowsill; holding a hot drink in hand. She was looking away, at the frozen trees; which had long stopped breathing and had turned into pieces of wood. She was thinking though, how they had always managed to be anything but pieces of wood and had proven her otherwise; time and time and again. So as she stayed by the windowsill, looking away at that frozen winter scene, she took a sip of that hot drink clutched in her hands and she smiled.
​
Self Portrait
January the Third
January 2012
It all felt like that Christmas morning…the one when I opened my eyes, lying on my side with only one thought in mind. The day that I jumped out of bed, wrapped the colored wool blanket around my goose bumps and rushed out of the door. Then I approached the other room as I could see the warm glow of the reds and oranges with a shade of ever green dotted on the side walls…
​
I could just close my eyes and feel what I felt right then, right there, right now. Santa’s suitcases were not anywhere to be found; Santa hadn’t made it the previous night and on that Christmas morning all those feelings inside my chest were replaced by other feelings, quite different…you see it was never for the many gifts Santa had promised to bring me; but for the first time I felt how much I had always loved Santa and in that very moment I wished for only his presence, not his presents.
​
Yes, it felt just like that today; when I got up out of bed to find the bed in the next room, unruffled, unwrinkled and all made up. Even the shades were still way shut down. The room was filled with nothing: my heart-if only for a moment-felt very much like that as I turned around, faced the door and walked back to start my day.
​
The other big room at the end of the hallway had long been dissected into two separate rooms, also big. That day as I walked around, I realized one thing about each room: First as I walked by it, I though the door of the smaller room was closed shut; as I looked a little closer though, I could see that it wasn’t quite shut; as my eyes could see a touch of darkness coming out from that part of it ajar. I could hear very faded breaths; faded but frequent. I got held of the door knob and peeped just a little more to make sure; yes, I could see her chestnut locks scattered on the pillow and one of her eyebrows emerging halfway out from the sheets.
​
As I walked through the hallway and reached the pathway to the bigger room, I noticed how the fire lit in the fireplace was still trying to breathe some warmth into the quiet room; still trying to spread some warmth as the man was lying right beside, on the floor, with pieces of rag and thin cloth wrapped around him. All I could see from that view was a ball of unruly silver-white hair emerging from the rags. Faded sounds of someone breathing could also be heard…frequently.
​
I was about to find my way to the washing room when I felt it: a sudden ooze of pain and blood. A moment of a stop, a sudden certainty of a halt in time; I looked down, held my foot up and saw it: a triangle of glass, halfway up my heel, decorated with flowing red. Then it drew my attention: on the brick wall, where I was standing, I could see what appeared to be powdered pieces of light, shimmering and reflecting the reds and oranges of the Christmas tree. I touched it just to be sure, they scratched my fingertips. Then I looked into the corners, I could see tiny pieces of orange, red and green scattered all over the place, pieces of shattered glass one of which had released a few drops of my red blood.
​
I took one last look at the dotted reds and oranges on the side wall, then looked down, took the piece out of my heel and “walked” my way to the washing room. I entered and went straight for the mirror…then I looked into it and felt the need to close my eyes as I turned the valve…then all I could feel was the sound of the water, flowing…
Self Portrait
Darkness
October 2011
Let me write of Darkness today; let me tell you what Darkness is, what it does, once given reign. Darkness we have lived with for as long as we have lived. Darkness is pure power to the highest degree of strength; it does truly destroy and leaves none but Darkness. Once upon a time there was light, there was white and there was glow. Then came Darkness and took it all away.
​
We all hold a light within; a certain godly glow which forever we have held within our soul, that light which has contained us for as long as eternity. And then there has always been that inevitable inclination towards things of the dark and Darkness. We have tried to suppress the dark monster inside and for sure it has at times been truly suppressed. We have put on smiles where only sour pouts were meant to be. We have nodded where deep inside we have shouted disagreement. We have done things which were the last things on our minds or in our hearts. We have said we are okay with things we have truly despised and on the spur of the moment, we have truly imploded in silence.
The Darkness though, has always been there, somewhere, crawling amongst our many unsatisfied moments of existence; many moments have not truly ever existed, for we have suffocated a true heart’s desire and have fought with the Darkness inside, our Darkness.
The moment comes in every person’s life when the Darkness takes control and we have to give in and let go of the self, of the light of all that has ever “mattered” so much.
The moment does come…
That’s when there is no light, no glow or no white; it’s all black. The soul aches in pain and instead of that smile, that nod, all that accord there’s only the dark; instead of that implosion in silence; there is many an explosion, all deafening and fatal. Yes, when the Darkness takes over, there’s none but the Darkness, of the very destructive kind.
Do we let our Darkness overtake? Do we let go of it all? What we do does never matter; and yet it does! It’s all a decision; it’s all a choice; on that spur of the moment when Darkness is at our door.
Self Portrait
Strange Lovers in Darkness
October 2011
The eye sees black
of an endless lack
lying on their back
Their feelings rather packed
The heart hears a beat
Of another part a heat
The pounding of deceit
In their loneliness they meet
A lover of the stranger kind
Of something bizarre to the mind
It flows inside the darkness
And mingles the now two blind
They long and burn inside
And shiver right outside
Where it’s cold and dark
Now the eyes with better sight
In the blackness of a quiet night
Filled with something of delight
The pounding stops
But the shivers not!
They intertwine afar
With the door just left ajar
And make a tiny movement
To bring close what’s far
Soft sounds with whispers delicate
Are heard in every silhouette
Shadows have stopped to be right now
their movements all deliberate!
There’s a moment of pure stillness
In the midst of all the madness
The sanity of a burning heart
Is long gone with the sadness
The heart has skipped a beat
It’s been silenced in defeat
It has given up and let go
Of all its rusty beats
A rhythm flows inside the room
Of navy blue and black maroon
The head does feel a nudge inside
Outside what's felt's a boom
Their eyes wide open meet right now
And feel the fear and don’t know how
They move inside the other's torch
They speak with mere know-how
There’s a rush of something scary
There’s stillness; it’s all blurry
There’s a feeling of a love inside
Which flows right where it should be
They move to make it happen
It flows where they’ve never
ever been to, ever known of
But it’s happened like it's never.
Self Portrait
Boy
August 2011
“Stop thinking!”
“Stop thinking dammit!”
Those were the words the tiny little boy shouted at me with a certain degree of anger and force; and then he passed playfully, holding that look of truancy in his young tearful eyes.
​
We had spent the whole evening arguing and fighting over nothing; it kinda felt as if we had spent our whole lives doing that. He was a good boy, just a touch “naughty” so to speak. I really liked the little fella; I had this feeling of protection towards him, as if somehow, for whatever reason I were to look after him for at least one true reason: he being so young, so small and so fragile.
His attitude towards me was a respect of some kind; definitely not respect per se, but some kind of looking up, some kind of strange, platonic-like, childish little love. He cared, this little boy and had this very pure soul.
I was busy with the many rites of life; I was in fact busy with this examination of some kind. It was of importance to me apparently. The result would be “life-changing”, or not! Anyways, at the moment it felt as if it were quite important. The child would come and go, play around, just like how a child does, just like a child is supposed to: playfully, joyfully, impulsively and absolutely freely. Just how children are to live, just how a childhood is meant to be…
I would look after this little kid from afar, one eye on the examination sheet, sitting on the ground, worrying about this good-for-nothing piece of junk which somehow would make a big difference in my future career apparently and one eye-and at times even two-on the little boy, running to and fro all around this massive chamber that has so many twists and turns; appearing and disappearing every second from a different corner, at times looking at me while doing so and at times looking absolutely distant, as if I weren’t even there to begin with.
At one point, not caring even the tiniest bit about the examination I jump to my feet and decide to go and look for the little boy; I have a feeling inside me, a paternal or even a maternal-like intuition which propels me to go and look for him, to find him; for I feel he needs my presence. I go and I find him in the next chamber, running around, half-naked.
“What are you doing?” I ask of him.
“Nothing! Playing. Let me go. Don’t you have things to do?”
“Are you okay?” I ask him, noticing traces of rash, bruises and even blood on the surface of his delicate, soft skin.
He just looks away and starts jumping around once more. I feel so sad inside. Something in my stomach churns and my heart is filled with pain. I get back to the examination chamber. Only now, less than ever I have a desire to sit and write. So I just go out through the back door into the yard outside.
Daylight is so bright; all the colors so vivid and so real. I wonder how time has lost meaning altogether. I know I have to look for the little boy outside. I start looking. I see him jump around, playfully from afar. I can see his eyes very distinctively even from distance; His eyes, so full of something as well as tears. Something so painful; a secret, a mystery, some kind of pain; and yes, I would know pain…
After what feels to be a series of efforts in vain to get hold of the little guy, I finally catch him; I grab his shoulders, look him in the eyes and ask:
“What is wrong with you little child? Are you okay? I am worried.”
“I’ll be fine.” He replies as he looks away, trying in vain to hide his many scars from my eyes. I look at him with care; meticulously I observe the manifestation of his misery in his eyes, in his rashes, in the blood dotted all around his skin. The rashes are worse the minute I recognize them. They turn black and parts of his face peel off; such a grotesque picture manifesting itself out of such pure beauty of a child, of this tiny little boy right in front of me.
Now I can only cry; my tears come down in silence and pure love fills my heart. I feel responsible; I feel like a father to this little boy, he seems to be my child, as well as my childhood somehow. I hold him ever so tightly and kiss away his tiny little tears coming down his bruised cheeks. I kiss him on the eyes, on the forehead, on the lips and hold him once more forever.
I tell him:
“Don’t you ever cry little boy. I will take care of you, look after you. I will take you to the doctor, I will wash away your sorrow and I will heal you and I will be there for you for as long as you shall need me, you lovely little boy, so pure and so big”
He just looks at me in awe, with those bright eyes so wet. He looks at me for a very long moment and I see myself in his eyes. And I hear my own words coming back to me. As if he were the one who uttered them somehow. And once more I feel safe, regardless of the massive amount of pain inside my heart; my tears somehow stop.
Self Portrait
Motion of the Living Pinwheel
August 2011
It was the busiest street in one of the biggest cities in the world and it was a holiday of some kind. It was night time and all those who had decided earlier in the evening to get out were now bunched up in their steamed up cars, stuck in the ever-still traffic trying to get home or somewhere like that.
​
It must’ve been the thousandth time that he had warned his father not to take the main street and the point that his father, for the billionth time had done otherwise made the vessels in his forehead triple their regular size and his blood cold. Of course, none of this changed anything when it came to the ever-growing traffic and the dream-like stillness of the vehicles along with their dead-like passengers.
All around there were lights; of many colors, but the warm colors mostly visible: orange, red and yellow. He put in his ear buds while listening to songs at random. This seemed like the best thing to do given the otherwise unbearable circumstances at hand. After getting all cooped up and settled in the back seat his attention was drawn by something on the other side of the broad street; on the sidewalk.
A paper pinwheel turning ever so swiftly and rapidly on top of a plastic straw held very tightly by the hands of a little boy-one would think eight or so-who was running very joyfully and with such passion while holding this bright smile in that bitter cold air.
He could not tell where the little boy’s parents were or whether he was alone or. Because the little boy was just doing one single thing: running! At the highest speed possible for his tiny feet and short legs. He was running because if he were to do otherwise, if he were to reduce speed even a little bit, his paper pinwheel would lose speed or even worse, it would stop turning altogether. Yes; the little boy didn’t want that to happen anytime soon. So he just kept moving and so did his paper pinwheel.
The cars had barely moved ten inches and he was feeling restless. The random tracks on his music player were random indeed. He decided to choose a certain playlist. Nauseous and dizzy at this point, he took a deep breath but right after doing so realized all the windows were tightly shut and all he took in was the stale, smoky air inside the car. He rolled down the back window by an inch or so and kept looking afar; perhaps to observe another slice of life. But then all of a sudden, the stillness present was too much, he experienced a sudden rush of suffocation and felt a restlessness of some kind.
No sooner had his father put the car in gear that he pushed the back door open and almost jumped out. Slamming the brakes, his father turned back, looking alarmed and asked in an angry hissing voice:
“What’s wrong?”
​
“Nothing” He mumbled. “I’m just gonna walk the rest of the way.”
​
So he took off, walked among the many pretty-much-parked cars and looked into all the foggy glasses at all those still silhouettes. A very happy song was playing on his player; one with a very beautiful poem which he loved. He wanted to go by each car and draw a smiley face on the fogged up glasses or perhaps even write something heartfelt; But then decided to just do it in his head; you see, he thought of this as the more proper thing to do. He walked towards the sidewalk and started walking the miles. He gained speed, his steps becoming quicker by the second. Within just a few seconds he was almost running. And then he really was running.
There were other things in his imagination as well. For instance, at that very moment, he had a paper pin wheel in his hands and then a very beautiful smile emerged where his lips were. He kept smiling and running in that cold bitter night; perhaps to get a little bit warmth and joy; some passion.
Self Portrait
Sexperience
July 2011
The monastery was somewhere up the steep hill; where all the colorful flags were fluttering in the morning breeze that flowed upwards, all around. On that serene, sunny day one could only breathe in all the freshness that the mountain air had to offer; and so did the young boy while he was making his way through the numerous twists and turns of the path. He had learnt a variety of breathing techniques from his master and was putting them to practice at a moment of need. He thought to himself while doing so that his master would probably not approve of the way he was doing it; that perhaps he was doing the right one in the right place at the right moment; all the young boy was thinking though, was that he had to do them, even if randomly just as each felt right at every of HIS moments. He didn’t have time to think of his masters’ absurd worries and concerns; his master was nowhere near and today he needed no more masters; he simply wished to live and of course to go up the slopes of the hill; right where the monastery was.
As the monk was going through his morning, he was waiting; for the young boy that is. He had a rosary in hand and was somewhere among the beads, chanting. Incense in the air was visible, moving silently at peace wherever it felt like; it was the time for some kind of prayer or meditation or something that had to do with peace and the divine of some kind that for sure only the monk knew of. He was waiting for the young boy whom with such thrill was on the way. He could feel his lively soul coming his way; full of something the monk wasn’t quite sure of, except for the obvious excitement and boyish joy. Halfway through with his ritual and quite excited himself by this point he walked rather swiftly to the door and waited just beside the door where the fresh morning breeze and the divine sunlight caused him to have an orgasmic feeling of love. He could see the young boy; he was almost there.
They greeted in the way which suited each and without any pause went inside the monastery. The boy drank up every detail of the place; it was a very special place, he thought to himself while the monk was just walking behind him in such silence. The monk offered him a hot liquid which tasted like plants and told him that it would give him more spirit, as if he needed any more spirit of any kind, the young boy! He took a few gulps regardless and cleared his throat without further ado.
“Hmm. So, you said you had a few questions.” He said with great confidence, knowing that the monk was not much older than him anyways so there was no reason to be distressed or more polite than he normally would be.
“well, yes boy. I do have a question or two to ask you; and I suppose the same goes with you. ”
“what I don’t get is why you men of religion must always speak with an authority of wisdom, if that’s what you can really call it. How are you certain that I have a question or two as well?”
“I’m only using common sense you see; you can’t come all this way and ask no questions now, can you?”
“I guess not…anyways shall we get to the point? Not that I’m not enjoying this amazing experience of seeing this place and coming here today but quite honestly, I’m quite listless and I just want to get to the point. I feel like a little child.”
“Alright then, proceed. Go on boy.”
“So I guess I’m asking first right? Okay then, as long as we finally get started…oh! One more thing: could you like not call me BOY? It kinda gets on my nerves and all that. So tell me, what’s the deal with sex? Or let me put it this way, what’s the whole deal about not having sex? How can man deprive himself of his most basic needs or better said his basic instincts? How do you guys deal with it? I’m sure no god of any kind would want their people to suffer this way. I can never quite get around the idea of saying no to sex of any kind. What WOULD you do? It’s just insane, the thought of it even! I’m not even one of those sex conscious kind of people you know, but you know…I mean…let’s face it, do you ever like think about it in your many hours of loneliness up here in the monastery? Does it not drive you nuts? Seriously!”
“What is sex, really? Could you define it for me boy? Do so, so I can answer all your questions one by one. ”
“Sex is that sudden rush of blood to certain places which causes certain…certain juices to flow where they should and then hormones and then awakenings and then certain smells and tastes and the many things of pleasure poking at you with such splendid harmony that you feel alive and full of life…full of love and passion you just want to burst and you’re just not there anymore…you’re in nothingness, in emptiness and all the while you’re just filled with something which is just what you desire for and you keep asking for more and more of what you’re experiencing. That’s what sex is dammit!”
“And when you ask for more of this THING that you’re describing, do you actually get any more of it?”
“well that’s just…I mean that’s not even the point you see, because you see, it’s pretty much the ride’s that your after really. I mean a few moments of pleasure and divine passion experienced through another human being…through their body, their skin, their smells and their…god I’m going crazy just talking about it!”
“I am a man of god and when I talk of him I get the feeling you’re describing. I know it doesn’t sound quite as tangible as one would wish but you see, the same energy, the same rush that you talk of, is what I get when I’m with my god; when I’m spending time with him. I take pleasure in his company more than anything else in this world and when I ask for more, I quite often would receive more of his compassion and love for me and I’d be filled with something of the same strange air you’re talking about. My god never lets me down. I use my senses just as much as you do; I smell the sweet aroma of spring and become so alive; I touch the velvety greens of nature and feel bliss; I taste the pure ambrosial gifts of it and am filled with euphoria. This ecstasy is constant just like the ever-flowing breeze of life that never ceases.”
“But have you ever kissed a lover on the lips? Have you ever wanted to kiss someone so bad you just didn’t know where to start and how to kiss…how much to give? Have you ever done that? have you ever touched a lover with all your being everywhere on their skin? Have you ever felt like you know a lover’s body as if it were your own? Have you ever made love to a lover with such passion and desire that if only for a few second you though you couldn’t simply live anymore? Now tell me, have you?”
“I hear your words and that’s all they are to me: words. Are mine the same to you…All I say? I do know what I talk of, I do feel every single word. But I can’t quite understand what you’re saying boy. I do feel the passion in your words, but what are words, really but words? If they cannot show you the love I’m feeling inside, then what are they but useless words? If they can’t give you the pleasure of the existence you could feel next to god then what are they, really other than some alphabets playing the game of confusion so well?”
“But I speak of no words “boy”; I speak of a greater love, maybe you cannot understand my words or what I say, but you can feel them perhaps?”
The monk had never felt so lost and confused and full of something so strange capturing his soul; it was like no sensation he had ever had. He looked into the eyes of the boy, they were flickering with something so bizarre to him…something which was yet so familiar. The boy came close, put them on his lips, his lips; and showed him what he meant; just to get the message across.
And then he knew.
Self Portrait
Legacy of the Gypsy Girl
May 2011
On a very humid summer mid-day, when the sun is scorching hot, in the park, under the cooling shade of a weeping willow sits a gypsy girl; among her other gypsy girlfriends, she’s reflecting quietly, sitting there in her many-layered, many-colored dress which is a little bit shabby and dirty here and there. Her beautiful long hair, fluttering and flowing under the golden rays of sun is a little damp. She’s looking down, towards the glimmering green grass, freshly cut.
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The other gypsy girls have formed a circle and are playing one of their many colorful, gypsy games. They are playing the game, very joyfully, with no cares in the world. One can see their dirty, colorful clothes and the shredded layers of their many-layered, many-colored dresses very vividly under the bright, burning sun. they’re playing a game, laughingly.
Our quiet gypsy girl has eyes of creamy, caramel gold; With those creamy caramel eyes she looks through the rays and beyond the little park, right beyond the mountains and through the shattered horizon. She seeks something; Something rare.
The man suddenly emerges out of thin air. He’s big and bulky with a blackened face and filthy hands. His hands are charcoal black and his face, smudgy. He has disheveled hair and is wearing a muddied white shirt; or perhaps a shirt which once used to be white. He makes his way through the game-playing lot and moves directly towards the girl; our girl.
From afar, I can only witness that very harshly he asks the girl to go with him. The girl just sits there, very indifferently and does nothing. He starts acting all desperate and childish, the girl says none and only sits there. He then does what appears to be very loud shouting because for a few minutes the other girls pause their game and look their way; they get on with their game shortly after. The girl sits even more firmly on the grass and does not move. The man gets hold of her arm and forces her to go with her, she persists. The man becomes a monster. Down from the creamy, caramel golden eyes of the girl, come a few drops of dew and glitter in the golden rays of the sun. her lips, tied.
He pulls her very harshly once more & drags her on the freshly-cut grass as the girl struggles to let go. He grabs her tiny wrists and takes her away.
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The next moment, I see no more of her colorful beauty among the greens of the park on that golden summer day.
Self Portrait
Mason't Night Out
March 2011
I preferred to be called by the name Mason. I thought it really suited me; sound-wise that is. I was considered tall and rather slim, with burnt caramel semi curly locks—mid length and a faded olive complexion. I had a pair of liquid golden brown eyes; I use the terminology so delicately because my eyes were always the target of numerous compliments coming from all kind of sources, so it just had to be right. I guess you could say that I was a fun person; a funny one at that.
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I had read somewhere amongst all the random gibberish and nonsense I’m reading all the time--seeking a morsel of truth any which way I can—and I’m quoting, that you should “do one thing each day that scares you!” it rang nice to my senses, initially the sense of hearing and I thought that very second to myself: “Mason, you gotta add that one to your list right away.” And so it was settled.
It had been a slow day so far that fateful midweek day. I was done with work and had no plans whatsoever and was a tad out of sorts and tired of the old routines; had tried each and every single one of them for the past couple of hours and now it was time for some real thrill; something exciting which would perhaps—off the top of my head—“scare” me. So I got off my chair and headed for the closet. The outfit was without a doubt part of the whole act; so I picked it so meticulously. The loose khakis, the cozy old woolen pull over covered by the open zip matching gray cardigan accessorized particularly with the unusually lengthy stripe subtle scarf and of course my really comfortable trekking boots. As a final touch to the whole “look” I fastened my black headband around my forehead and topped it off with my black woolen gloves which would fit perfectly on my long and artistic fingers. The whole thing looked subtle and sophisticated both at the same time; if that had ever been possible of course. I grabbed the pen knife and headed out.
The night was calm and brisk and well, certainly dark. It felt a bit colder than expected so I decided to take quicker steps just to avoid the excessive hassle. It wasn’t like I had to be cold for much longer, I knew. So I headed where I was supposed to. The twisted alleys promised no danger, but simply what they had forever offered; stillness and quiet. Tonight though, there was something more: an air of horror, the kind which wouldn’t truly scare you. I passed the many dimly lit windows with shades of warm shades; pink, orange, yellow and amber; I would close my eyes and feel the countless movements behind them; those of violence and passion; those of boredom and emptiness. For some reason though, I could only feel the former for the most part. I passed and let the night keep on with its breathing.
Where I live a bridge with a considerable width divides the enormous canal by two parts; I’ve named them the lower and the upper side. For no particular reason and definitely with not much effort; so I started out from the lower side and made my way up. There he was; a possible case. He was almost the same height as I am and almost as fit; had nice looks too. The interesting thing is that he himself started the conversation and well, saved me the whole role play. That very moment I figured “well, he’s just too easy, what’s the fun?” so we just walked, up till the bridge where after having talked on and on about the importance of exercise and how he was apparently the master of all physical fitness and whatnot we shook hands and parted our ways.
I went down the narrow stone stairs; they were kind of wet and slippery from the rain all day and felt different beneath my boots; I almost even slipped once or twice. So when you go down the stairs, there you are; at the very beginning of the path which I call the upper-side journey. It’s way much longer than the lower side path and for a couple of reasons is of more interest; basically it just feels better to walk it. There’s much to explore and the eye doesn’t get tired soon. As I was walking upwards on the curvy path, I could feel and be certain that here was where it was all gonna take place; this was where I were to do what I had come for. It was awfully dark and the sky had tones of gray and pink and salmon, with a very blurry faded blue which kinda stretched right down to the horizon. For a moment I tried to talk to god and ask him a couple of questions which had lately been puzzling me; and I did it, but well, all he did was looking back with his innumerable twinkling eyes in absolute silence; or perhaps sneering back with that single giant silver glass eye of his. I gotta admit, it wasn’t all that satisfactory; Determined as ever I kept walking.
I had almost reached the skirts of the rocky cliffs; you see, that part of the path is what I call the impossible twist; cause it’s all dark and lonesome and ends in rubbles and kind of a dead-end. If you’re looking from way back, you’re gonna think it just ends right then and there and you’d never bother going up there, but you see, as I had taken the path many many times, I knew that it’s no dead-end; no sir. It keeps on going farther and farther till it forms into this narrow twist that leads into a bridge which eventually takes you all the way back to the beginning of the upper-side path. So I kept heading upwards to the impossible twist, for a second I thought I saw a massive shadow; and I did in fact. It was one of a lonesome dog; shabby and jet black moving ever-so-slowly in the darkness, almost like a silhouette amongst the blackness of the night; lit slightly by the former eyes of god up there, twinkling. The dog’s movement, walking or whatever it is that dogs do did not make the slightest form of noise and it kinda crept me out; the next minute though, the dog no longer was anywhere to be seen.
I climbed up the curvy twists and took the final turn which would bring me back to the beginning of the upper-side path. It was as if I had been there to do something which I hadn’t done by that point for a number of possible reasons; either cause It hadn’t been the right moment or simply because I had absolutely no idea why I had been there in the first place. Life could be full of confusions, filled with secrets with no revelations at hand. All I could feel and be certain of was the presence of darkness. So I was scared, as I tried to make my way back to the main bridge, I passed the trickling mirror of a pseudo lake gathered from the ongoing rain of the past week, the remote construction which I would personally call “deconstruction” and the very questionable stain marks on the stone tiles on the path and reached the main bridge. Once at the feet of the stairs I just looked back to get a final taste of the darkness; but it’s funny how all I could see right now was the many colorful lamp posts scattered all around the path, making it a very pleasant scene, all lit so colorfully.
When I passed the main bridge and as I was climbing down to the lower-side path, I realized the different air; here the first thing that drew my attention was the lamp posts; it struck me as strange how on this side of the way they were all of one single color: white. Like the color of the snow. They were white and awfully orderly erected alongside the pathway. It looked like the snow queen’s forbidden territory, as if I had never even taken this path which—let me tell you—I had, more than thousands of times. I don’t know, if I really wanted to express the feeling I guess I could say it was like hallucinating the reality and realizing the illusory all that same time. so I just looked up at the sky once more, trying to decode the secret of this hour; but looked back down in disappointment and kept walking.
You see, in the end I couldn’t remember why I had been there in the first place. I mean, yes; obviously I was aware that I had gotten out to do one thing that scared me but when I truly thought about what that very thing was, why I had taken my pen knife just in case and how I had prepared myself for doing anything—and I mean—ANYTHING that night; but regardless, I was simply in the dark; figuratively and literally and had no idea whatsoever what it was all about; I just knew one thing for sure; and only cause it felt that way; that thing was, somehow—for whatever reason—my mission was accomplished.
​
Self Portrait
Narcissus: Delve or Dive
December 2010
In the creamy world of chocolate bliss all you’re ever expecting and looking for is pleasure and bliss; that sweet taste of creamy desire melting right there, where it should and nowhere else. The creamy texture touches your insides and leaves places moist; inside your mouth that is. You want to just lie somewhere and be blown away by all the movement that’s happening and recurring inside you, in your soul; you want to be very still.
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Elsewhere though, you’d really want to get up, push your way through all the crowds and be left with only one other body and soul; half a soul even and you would like to lick the chocolate off their bare skin. But this time it’s salty as well as sweet; it’s all the taste you’ve ever been after, all your tongue has ever been seeking. You would love to be left with just the taste and that sensation felt beneath your many places, your skin and inside your soul.
The look of something pretty that you die to wake up and see; the sight of that certain something that drives you absolutely into a frenzy where you just want to feel more and more, that’s what you live for. In that place where pleasure is the least of all the pleasure you’re ever gonna receive and where an orgasms is just the beginning; that’s where you’d want to be. Where you can see all you think of as absolute beauty and you may have all the beauty inside, outside.
In that lost world of your dreams where nature itself gets confused and loses her way, its way, you can be still and then move forward and just dance to the music of inner joy. Your heart can be ignited and it shall bring warmth forever and more. You can touch the wind as it moves swiftly through your many souls and many bodies as it swiftly travels beneath your skin.
You would’ve if you ever could have, gotten right out of your own body and made love to that body which has held your soul inside for so long; for only you would’ve known how to make love to what would’ve been left of your soul: the body. You would’ve touched that body in those many places where it would’ve given you all the pleasure that you’d ever known of pleasure itself. You would’ve kissed you if you had the chance, because only you would’ve known how to kiss those lips that are so thirsty for that kiss you hold. You would’ve laid your fingers on that head, between all those locks; for only you would’ve known how lacked, a touch from those touching fingers is for them. Only you would’ve known the many senses it would sense, and only you would’ve known what textures the tongue was to feel. Yes you and only you.
The mirror though, was no friend to you and you had to leave long ago. You had to be where all the other souls were and were nature would take control. You would go places that the wind so harshly would put you through and you would cover all your being because of the cold. It was a long way to that unknown destination where you were headed. And you chose the path to that place; wherever it was. You managed to drown yourself in that surface where that lie began to draw you in. and to have known of the depth was not your intention; you just wanted to sit by the lake and make love to that lover who kept looking at all your being, admiring every single part; all the irresistible beauty.
by Amin Atashi
Elements
November 2010
Welcome to my secret garden. If you have arranged an appointment, you can enter right away; if not, we’re gonna have to—sorry, you’re gonna have to take some precautions. Perhaps you should be a first timer, or even worse, an old timer who has forgotten all about the thrill and danger; of the many rules and their perpetual nonexistence.
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In the garden of my gathering love, lies a valley of lively lilies which are just there to be appreciated and loved. There’ a long road of old dust and pebbles for tough walks yet to come. The road shall ever be unpaved by the many souls who walk it or try to walk it off.
The sky shall remain as gloomy as a sunny day’s sorrow which is right there under the glowing light, exposed to all those with darkness inside; And then shall the cloudy night bring with it, an air of dark joy, just to light a shattered soul and fill it with a glowing beam of raindrops.
The drops of rain, when they pour or simply drizzle, surpass the many fears of the many spirits that carry them and break the soulless heart of those who are scattered in that trodden ocean of darkened blue and rustic flow. The raindrops have known better in the past; today though, their ignorance is their sole legacy to the rain.
The fire which burns comes in that cold and warms the soul which is very weak to the touch of aliens or lovers or simply any living soul that cares to share a flicker of flickering fire that burns. It talks with the sparkling sparks of the warm glow that it releases into the rainy night and it says things of heartfelt feelings and a warm touch of fire is their gift.
The heat that fills the heart with touching the external soul comes and takes away the shaky heart of a frozen spirit and offers a warm embrace, so that maybe a sweet after taste of sunlight would be the only heritage it has to leave in the empty heart of this soul which has long suffered.
Self Portrait
Meta-Me Thesis
November 2010
Is there no stability in life? The answer would be either yes or no and either way it wouldn’t make a difference; the inevitable duality of a lifetime.
If I heard the sound of a violin, in the arms of someone who really knew how to play the tunes, I would be overwhelmed and be taken away by the sweet sounds of love and music blown through the air and I would close my eyes and die if only for a moment. Then I would love to be the one who was playing the sweet melody and I would know how to hold the bow and play. But then I would open my eyes and know for a fact that I do not know how to play the violin, which consequently would deprive me of the ability to play at all. Then I would close my eyes again, or would I? with open eyes I would listen to the beautiful sound resounding. It would sound less real but it would keep playing regardless.
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There’s a line and there are people waiting. They are wearing clothes of many colors; but they look very sad, the colors are all faded, mostly greyish. The sun is very scorching and there’s an air of sorrow all around. Life has been sucked out of every living being and the smell of gasoline and bitterness fills their lungs. They are waiting in that line, the taxi line, waiting to be carried elsewhere to keep on with their deadened lives. He goes and stands at what at the moment seems to be the end of the queue. He’s looking at their expressionless faces and their speaking eyes. There’s a flower store on the other side of the narrow street. Seems like they’re closing up; he feels the breeze from afar and leaves the line and goes inside. No one notices but a few. After a while he comes out with a bunch of flowers in his hand. Smiling in that green shirt, he comes, walks very slowly as if in slow motion and goes towards the line. The flowers are absolutely brimming with life and color. They are soulful. He goes back and stands in the queue. Everyone’s still waiting.
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There are only certain days when an angel would feel safe amidst the wild crowd. With its wings tucked in and its ever-showing smile lowered to a very subtle curve. But that certain light of purity, that glow could never be concealed and it never should. So they would see it, feel its different sensation through their soul and they would care to venture many a guess as it flows through their lives and lifts their spirits if only for a second. The angel knows every single soul so well, except for a few which would remain lovers forever for all eternity probably.
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Supposedly the new shoes would fit perfectly; many shoes I’ve tried on before, many I’ve worn and outworn. Many I’ve walked in and walked by. New shoes always do come with a price. If only I had wings, then I wouldn’t need any shoes for I would fly everywhere and never land. But then there’s the valley and the green land. How can not one walk; for all eternity?
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To have loved a few or a few more than a few or even a little bit more than that was a burden at times. It also was a very guilty pleasure which would leave this overwhelming aftertaste in your mouth. That sweet taste of a first kiss which would certainly bring all the more determination of its persistence, that’s of the many tastes of the forbidden fruit or fruits. And then there were boundaries, or none. And then there was lust over the many touches and the heat of a burning desire which needed to ravage something. So we did what we had to do and it felt good. The water turned into fire so many times that one could not tell the difference between water and fire no more. There was this huge difference though.
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The shiver of a very sordid autumn day kept me warm and made it all feel so cozy and heartfelt. Yes, those autumn days were so long lacked and were the answer to the many questions of this wandering soul. Autumn was my home and even winter knew this very well.
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We all did.
Self Portrait
Andrew's Moment of Truth & Dare
August 2010
Absolute, sheer, utter, pure madness; Andrew had learnt these collocations time and again. Hearing is one thing of course, but experiencing, quite another. He had always tried to listen intently, sympathetically; never with half an ear. To truly listen, Andrew knew, wasn't simply hearing the words and waiting for his own turn to speak his mind. He knew that really listening was all communication was cracked up to be. Communication: that familiar word. Andrew knew it like his own name; had heard it even more. And this had made him a very good listener; a truly attentive listener. He would listen, really listen and try to communicate. he wouldn't much care about what others thought of his words, but he did care, to an extent, for what they had to offer. Andrew simply loved sharing, communication; a concurrent communion; a stream of thoughts; pleasant thoughts, appalling ones. This endless, steady stream. This madness was so real though; He had never feared self-alienation. At least that’s what he said. He loved change and creativity, innovation and any kind of rebirth or death for that matter. But this craziness was beyond him and all that he had faced. He hadn't ever known it; he hadn't ever expected it and please note that Andrew was always one for surprises, big ones at that. But this was so far, the maddest! Too much for him; He got mad. He was screaming at the top of his voice. His screams were high-pitched, loud, piercing, shrill, very hysterically blood-curdling. They were ringing out, echoing right through my head. For the first time since I had known him, I was terrified of him and his actions. For a second, it made me ponder:
“Is that really Andrew?”
It really was not. I did not know this guy. Who was he? I wondered if he even knew…he was petrified as much as I was. Oh well, how would I know? Maybe even more than I was; Doubtlessly.
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He just kept shouting:
“ I've gone mad! I've gone mad! I’m insane! I am insane! I’m seriously crazy! Help! I’m crazy! I can’t take it! I’m mad!”
I could barely imagine what he was going through; barely. But the terror in his eyes, was one of absolute authenticity; it was original, so real. You cannot possibly mistake that kind of fear for anything else. He transferred part of it to me too; And then more of it to the atmosphere. Then fear was dominant. Fear was all that was felt. In our souls, in the air; inevitable. You had to face it, there was no alternative. And then we all started fearing, being scared to bits; real terror this was. Only fear.
A few days have passed since then and the whole thing seems like ages ago. Yet I so vividly hear his shrill screams, his shouts, the blood-curdling echoes in his feared tone. Andrew was really scared that day. He only saw a glimpse of the truth and almost gone mad, almost died…almost.
Self Portrait
Pro Platonic Penetration
August 2010
There in the ashram I was sitting; to meditate. There was no time to hesitate; by the tree of knowledge, so nurturing, I was sitting in the quiet presence of the ashram, held by the warm embrace of the serene glow.
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Sitting there, in the ashram, it felt as if a part of me had always lived there, in this presence, feeling this love, this never-ending euphoria all around me: the delirious incense, burning, floating all throughout the hallways and the main chamber, the soothing sound of the ancient flute in the air, coming out of nowhere and from everywhere, seething at this point.
My oblivion and my alertness both emerging at once; letting me experience this lucratively glorious sensation; The whisper, heard in time, caressing me, this sweet aroma of nature and clay, of soil, of earth and the early breeze of the dawn which has passed through the dews of the moist midnight, cooling my soul.
I take a few drops of the tree sap; it makes me alive, brings me to life. I lie on the wet grass, now out of the halls, the damp, fresh air is melancholic and so still, moving and trembling and there’s the shaking of the earth so vibrant.
I’m breathing; I’ve been taught to breathe this way, it helps. It works like magic; “like” magic. But the real magic occurs when I simply let go of the learned and hang on only to the new, so to speak. With closed eyes, legs crossed and of course a straight spine, I sit to meditate, I sit to let go.
And so I go; I don’t get far, so obvious! Because the child, the little boy is awake. He wants to play yet another one of his old games, the slide game, it turns out; his favorite. But now he’s realized it’s just a game; only a game. It’s fun and all but it is, after all only a game. And he’s growing up this boy…
The ashram, the perfect replica of what the world’s made of. Some here, not knowing why; it pains me. It pains me how they close the doors and put giant padlocks on them and throw the keys in bottomless pits or the volcano even!
And I start dancing, right there, in the middle of the ashram, among the meditators, I’m just circling around, spinning, forming these very harmonious moves which I have always known but hidden in me.
The voices touch me and caress me and embrace me. Oh how full of joy. The rhythm is in the air and there’s air in the rhythm. I am the rhythm, ready to fade away, fade out, vanish.
I shouldn’t, but I occasionally do take a glance at the now even darker space, the cold, chilly breeze and the scared, scary faces so out of light, being tortured by their arch enemy, the self. Oh how it diminishes and dismantles the soul; squashes it right under its humongous giant feet.
Oh but love yet stays here, in this air. God lives in this ashram if you ask me. That’s why you possibly cannot get lonely around here; god is here, right here in the ashram. He lets us play together, we all can play. In the valley of love, there’s only joy, only goodness. Why then, be anywhere else? How could I? how would I ever? I shall be only here, and yet…
The pathless woods… the shore… the ocean… the music… NATURE… eternal nature
Let me have you; let me touch you all over and smell you; kiss your every inch and embrace you. Let me be yours, truly yours. Let me give you all I have, all my love. Let me just die for you; let me make love to you…sweet, passionate Love…
Self Portrait
In through the Wild
February 2010
Right when the waves come, something goes; either the now-shattered waves which had come a while ago or a man. One goes. One has to go. Always.
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The waves always know that they don’t exist; they know that they are not but the sea. When far from the shore they begin to be shaped into existence with the help of the wind, they are more themselves; for they don’t possess the hallucination that they will BE a wave for long. Once they actually reach the coast and fade in the sand, they can see it more that they are NOT but the sea. Once and for all they become selfless and a mark in the sand is the only thing that’s left of them, which eventually is vanished by the waves to come. They are the sea then, the waves. They have no time to be BUT that.
The man had decided to do the inconceivable; the “divine” as he would put it. He had been under the influence of something intense, something so powerful. He came to see the sea at that early time of the day when the morning breath is so zesty and new; when the air is so neat; the sea and the sky are one; when the horizon doesn’t care to be around and simply lets the air and the water play and mingle.
The velvety clouds dotted here and there are almost felt against your skin. The vastness of the landscape enters your soul and only your eyes are left as the single part of you that lingers. The breeze so magical drowns you deep into the sky among the clouds while you float in the sea, in the wild and crazy water you float.
The man, now overwhelmed by the magnitude and pure beauty of all this, goes into the sea. He lets the water touch wherever it feels like, he lets the water do the unthinkable. The man, burning with love, lets the lover end the existence of the beloved. He goes with the waves, the sea. Fear never even existed, EVER! This love has been the only inhabitant of the universe since the dawn of time. Imagine flying through the sea, being as spread out as air itself. How light. Now, the man could only see light, hope and love; could only BE. The next second he no longer WAS.
I, the little boy, seeing all this, feared the non-existence that had occurred. I, the little boy, was partly an observer, partly just a little boy. Here to play. I, the little boy, feared the sea and blamed the waves once more. I, the little boy, was repelled by the waves; I feared their existence. I thought they never were; but they were. For me they existed and they were rather cruel, the waves. The purity and beauty of the day still remained. When the man was gone or started to be, a seagull flew off and I knew who he was. I decided to call the seagull Jonathan the seaman.
Ever since the sweet tragedy, I couldn’t see; knowing that trying in this lost cause would be in vain, I decided to listen from then on, to hear in fact. So the visions were replaced by sounds, by tunes and echoes resonating and resounding all around and I just listened. So still, I just listened. The silence filled my ears, filled me up. To hear nothing but the flow is so pure, innate, so secluded and sacred. In this silence I heard a lot; many stories and tales of man and his journeys through the path of nature. I heard of love and beauty and adventure and the wild; definitely of the wild; I vividly remember the existence of the wild, always there; at its wildest indeed. And just to have shown me how good it could actually get, the wild shook the earth; an earthquake as man likes to call it. I laughed and just had fun with it; with a pinch of panic of course. In the end, the rain told me not to worry, for god was watching over. I hesitated for a second, but smiled regardless. The trees so green beamed and the morning once more emerged. I embraced the sea once more and the sea bid farewell to me with the rain. I said goodbye while the sea said:
“You’ll be here. You’ll come back; one day, you will.”
The calm breeze kissed me goodbye and set me on my way…
Self Portrait
