I am broken

 I'm broken

 

I've written this verses as a reflection on Emotional Cheating - on which you can read more - here.

Just breath...
Words roll out in my head
I know what you said
I know what I've said
I know how you feel
I know how I feel
And yet, I am broken...



I believed and I trusted
And yet my mind refuses to rest
This is for all sleepless nights
Tonight I choose to be broken.

I've bled long ago for a wound
You inflicted...
I thought it was healed
with no scars
But, there is a sign in my heart
And tonight it is again, bleeding.

I sneaked to your side of the bed
To give you dreamy hugs
and kisses
And your phone was alive
With her image.

I know you are not with her
History deleted...
And yet, tonight
I choose to be bleeding.




It hurts
That you gave her
The world in your eyes
The colors that we once shared
This is...
how we met...
A shopping list,
 it's all that's left...
Yes, tonight I am broken.

It hurts, the time
that we no longer spend
It hurts, the words
that we no longer share
The things I thought
were only mine
Are now shared...

I'm broken.
Just breath!
It will end...
in a way or another...
And then you can rest.


Photo sources: Google Images, except the last one.

Let it snow...upwards

Have you ever seen snowflakes dancing? No, dancing is the inappropriate word. Have you ever seen snowflakes flying in reverse, from downward to upward? I know how this sounds...and no it's not a snowstorm.

As my eyes shifted from my screen to the screen of life, the music drifting and enveloping the atmosphere from the background, I saw, as mirrored in the window the tiny dots of cotton playing outside. For a split second, I thought I was dreaming. I've left myself fall into the pace of timelessness harmony. The cotton balls hit the window leaving droplets on the glass. Like the sigh of a child I cut the air voiceless, my eyes barely open to make sure that I am still alive and awake. The music conducts without an established choreography the lost agitated snowflakes. I close my eyes and open them again to the same window of time filled with snowflakes going upward as if the earth had been delivering them and sending them into space. The sound of the violin is still dripping in my ears.

Snowflakes, snowflakes...will the sky become white from so many snowflakes? Will my dreams dive at night into the snow leaving traces of color, shame or joy, same as my feet have once left on the ground? Will my thoughts squeak on the snow of the sky as my boots on the white ground? Will the snow of the sky be fluffy and wet? Will it be crunchy and cold? I just have to wait for it to settle down...and for the night to come, so I can fly high and test the snow of the sky. I'll be like a child trying a slide for the first time. Let it snow, let it all be mine...in the land of dreams where the snow comes from the Earth and settles over the sky, where I can't feel the cold, where I can breathe the air without having a tube inserted in my nose, where snowflakes are not just a memory, but I can catch them in my palm.
Let it snow, let it snow today and tonight, taking my soul from the hospital bed to the peaceful dream of the winter above.

Images:ScutuPhotography

The last of us

One of my sleepless nights... Last year I had the unfortunate chance of hearing about some couples that broke apart after many, many years together...No matter their reasons, it made me aware of how easily we take love for granted, when it's so simple to drift away and lose that common ground. To all of you with broken hearts, I hope you find your peace and you will not stop to fight and love. 

The last of us

I've dreamed of you last night

And you were young and beautiful

And we were drinking coffee

And chatting like never before.

When I looked into your eyes

I knew we were perfect.

But, that was just a dream

Of a time that never came.

We heard the words of the world

They made our skin bleed

And we turned our heads

And run, run far away.

I still remember how you used to call me

It was a game they didn't understand

There was no need for promises

I knew you used to love me

Your eyes gave you away

I’ve sent the same message backwards.

I don't know why we died

But, it doesn't matter anymore

Now, if I look into your eyes

They are empty, gorgeous and blind

You treat me with a fake smile

I treat you with a fake coffee.

It was just a dream of us

A dream that never made it too far

Two friends in the night alienated by life

Two strangers in the night

Reunited under the moonlight...

So easily passing by,

So simply saying

              Goodbye!!!


Image Sources: Google Images

The mocking moon

In the night a beam of light
Sneaked on my pillow
Strangely enough, it was
A thief with a golden sword
Trying to pull out my eyes.
A thief with a golden sword?
That was when I realized
It was a dream.
In a heartbeat, I woke up
And as my eyelids opened
The moon, startled me
With a silly laugh...
From behind the curtains
Of my window.
Now, I totally need a hug
To hide my face
From the mocking spy.

Project Plan?

Found this poem in an old notebook from around 2010 or 2011. Work obsessed ? Nein, nein...just playing...

Look into the blue part

1011

Prime script for two months

Who is going to write that stuff?

Do the migration

To prove the process

It will all work for the pilot

After the pilot is complete

We will estimate 10% vibration

Send that data to us

We would have access to the source files?

What integration for the support and maintenance?

Six months before production

If you do the math

That is nine per month

Look into the damn blue part. 

The eyes of the abyss

Remembering Caraz Cesui with Anaiss Nomara

Did it happen to you that someone had a huge impact on you with you not really acknowledging it? And when they were gone from your life, you missed them until also that feeling disappeared and then the time passed and you have forgotten everything until one day something small, ridiculous triggers those feelings back in your head and brings that person back in your life.

For about a year now, I remembered him…“the man with the eyes of the abyss”. That’s how I used to call him. And the spark was not coming from a madeleine displaying his eyes, ha ha ha or simply me looking at those eyes, but something he had written. Do you know how many times I had seen those eyes after that period and I haven’t thought of them as abyss? I tried very hard to remember why I used to call him that and what made me stop…because I knew I was never really in love with him and he was not even a close friend. There was something mysterious that was hidden in the boxes of memories of my head, like a story, a fantastic story from a different world. The other day I remembered it again accidentally listening to a song that he also liked. The man with the eyes of the abyss came back for a second knocking at the doors of my soul, leaving a strange heartbeat behind before disappearing into oblivion again. I had to find out who was that man and what he had represented in my life back then.

And believe me, I’ve laughed very hard when I found out from an old notebook containing messages dedicated to him. The man with the eyes of the abyss, not my ex, not my friend, a stranger,… my muse. Yap. You guys, have girls for muses, why can’t we girls have guys? Well, as crazy as it seemed I had a half notebook full of written things dedicated to him, not out of love, well simply because he was my inspiration. It was enough to see him and my mind drifted away opening into a different universe where he was the king of fantasy. Love? I wasn’t actually fantasizing about my love and his, but I still called it love, because I was fascinated by his being, by his soul. 

And all I wanted was his soul. That desire was expressed actually quite poetically at the end of some of the verses or short stories. Now, that made me laugh again so hard that this morning I wanted to ask him if someone before has requested his soul. This sounds so malefic. It still amuses me. “Gimme, your soul! Right now!” Oh, and I also had to stare at his picture for about five minutes to find the abyss that I kept talking about. With a little effort…and a little help from a mysterious girl, I forgot about, Anaiss…let’s see who was or is the man with the eyes of the abyss.

It was during university years and three quarters of the female race had a crush on this tall guy from the Literature department with curly light brown hair and celestial blue eyes, a sensual full mouth, high cheek bones and a romantic air, like Byron and of course, a poet. I still make a face of aversion that after all this time I remember his traits or almost and I try to display them as lyrically as they were seen. What can I say, a beauty? No matter how ironic, I’m trying to be, I have to recognize, he was quite beautiful, he just didn’t appeal to my senses in any way. My friends were hysterical when he was passing by, the female race was falling at his knees and they thronged to see him. I was disgusted. My friends dragged me to the hallway because the beauty king was passing by and they were trying to convince me of his qualities. And while I was barely fitting in a doorway, totally bored and listening to their rattle, I saw him – the man with the eyes of the abyss. A smile appeared on my face as if I had discovered the mystery of the world. 
Those eyes were infinite in blackness, immeasurable, the entire universe fitting in those black eyes, a profound pit, a hole with no bottom, in space and time. I thought for a moment that he smiled back to me, but I probably imagined it or I was wrong, with all that femininity display around me.

“His friend is totally cool,” I mumbled to my friends. “Poet? Look at those black eyes…”

“His friend is our colleague, you idiot!” one of my friends replied to me ignoring the rest of my comment.

Yap, I must have looked like an idiot not to recognize one of my colleagues, but that was the moment when I actually first acknowledged him. And I don’t know if it was his white shirt, and his oily raven hair, or his face, with pretty normal traits, but those eyes touched something so frail in my soul, that I couldn’t stop wondering about them.

Of course, my friends finding out about my new interest, started to give me inputs about him: who he was, what he did, what school he was coming from etc. etc. But I didn’t care, all I wanted was to see his eyes and find out what it was beyond those eyes, what was behind that gate in a different universe. And each time I saw him after that, I discovered a different universe. I was already writing about the countless worlds behind those eyes. I was fascinated, not by the man, but by what he could have been.

One day, when we found out that my cousin had been their classmate, my friends asked him so many questions about the two men that my head hurt. I forgot instantly almost everything I was told. When we were left alone, my cousin looked me in the eyes and asked me the question that I refused to ask myself.

“So, you like him, ah?”

“Like?” the words paused on my lips for long and I didn’t know what to reply. “I don’t know if I can say that I like him…” I replied uncertain. And because I was pounding too long, my cousin continued.

“I don’t want to disappoint you, but I don’t think he is your type and clearly you are not his type.”

And then it clicked.

“No,” I jumped. “I don’t like him. I don’t like him in that way. I don’t know him to like him. I actually don’t care,” I replied laughing. “I just think he is a smart guy that I would like to know a little better or maybe not...I don’t know. I am not interested in him as a man. Leave it... it’s not what you think it is.”

And that where it was left and everybody else decided to leave me alone, with my weird single sided platonic love, if it could be even named that, maybe better phantasmagoric love.

I didn’t care who he was in reality, but the man with the eyes of the abyss was everything else in the universe that I was seeing behind his eyes. He was an immortal wall of time in the building of space, and one little window wanted to be protected, but he couldn’t protect only her from the bad weather, because he was too busy with all the other windows. He had become shriveled and the little window felt pity for him because they were both dirty and forgotten by the human race. In a poem Cleopatra was mourning his death and in another he was the light of the stars in a pitch black night with no name. He was the absence of time and the time itself. He had built himself from the sand of time grain by grain, he had felt love and hate and pain, he had felt joy and shame, he forgave and was forgotten, he blanked out his infinite past choosing to live a simple human life and with each missed memory a grain was dropping from his body. The infinite time was dying unconsciously, forgetting who he was. With each written line, I was reminding him indirectly, knowing that he would never discover that I knew his secret. He was not human, not in my mind…he was the immortal time, the man with the eyes of the abyss.

One day someone had mistaken my rhymes for love, again. In my try to defend myself, I ceased to write, about the “beautiful child with infinite eyes” and I only seen him for what he was in other people's eyes, a merely human being, one of my classmates. But, somewhere in my heart remained that feeling that somewhere in my life, I’ve met, the time itself. 

The time

To Caraz Cesui by Anaiss Nomara

Stranger, with hourglass eyes

I’m waiting for you in the night

The liquid moon is filtering the light

Into my teary eyes

Come, stranger, with hourglass eyes

And let me glance at your eternity

I promise I will respect the sand

Hidden in your eyes

I will treasure each grain

Full of your love.



(Image reflecting a dying star)

Abyssal eyes

To Caraz Cesui by Anaiss Nomara

In your abyssal eyes

I wish to lose myself

And in the desolation of the sea

I want to call your name

From the forgotten history

Your name resonates stormy

It’s you…

It’s you…

Beautiful and rebellious

Ancestral child of the immortal facts

I’m calling you…

I’m calling you…

(image edited by Scutu Mix)

Soul

(this is a mere translation of the real thing...but...it will do) 

To Caraz Cesui by Anaiss Nomara

Oh, you beautiful child

From the blue immortality

fall from the abyss of the night

lightening the way

stay unhappy in sifted anonymous

you, always born absent

from so much familiarity

oh, you unquenchable kid

perfect in perfection

immortalized

by the rotten moment of missing

Stay with me as the being

the only awakening

Of the timeless night

Mine, unique and eternal

…soul.

(image by peterpan-81 deviant art)

Dreamy kiss

Let me, tell you, My last dream…

 Last night I`ve dreamed that you kissed me

And I let it be

Why where we there?

Drowning with madness

Love, hate, charity, fake!

The man from the dust

The woman from the sky

They bloom in the wind and they remain alive

Why?

Pickled orange, sour cream

A dream, a dream!

I would never kiss you!

And you will never kiss me!

You are not he

And I am not she!

Windy wind, sniffing fire

Burning hot, cast desire!

Words in words, eye in screen…

Floating wings

Worlds apart, words across…

“I think I’m about to do something stupid…,

Follow me!”

A kiss of fantastic, no flesh chemistry

Knitting the words in a frenetic desire

Love, love, making love!

Making love with the words you and me!

A story about a story of life...

.
There is a time for joy there is a time for sorrow. Someone is born, someone is dying. This is how life goes...
And the beams are dancing.
And the sky is crying, is crying so hard.
I used to say that the sky is crying if someone special dies...And it's raining powerfully...

Someone's voice, someone's eyes...someone's hand caressing the time and vanishing in time.
"I never thought I'll be wondering on the paths of love ..."
The wings of memory - where have you lost a feather? What time? What year? What story?
A heart beat... of love? or fear?
"Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I used to ask her about the children and all my loved ones"
Why are you running in the wind my feather?
Family. Union. Missing.
"Later on we heard a different song like a happy march from the youngsters."
Playground or play torture?
"And there they were waiting - the emperor and his sons..."
Another story? A story into the story... A fantasy to break the reality. From?
"The prison is obliged by the international laws to bring us to a more favorable regime for the political prisoners"
What? I thought ... I thought this was about...


Life?
It's pouring rain, rain that becomes fog. The wings are wet and heavy. A piece of bread moisten by the rain for the sky birds, left behind for a crusader by a man from Cyrene, named Simon, and they forced him to carry the cross.
"The crucified Jesus didn't correspond with the idea the Jews had about the Messiah. The waited Messiah is the one that will..."
Sacrifice or hope. Just wings many wings too wet and heavy to fly, holding each other into a warm hug. And the wind, a fiercely wind that bit at times feathers, and flesh and bones all at once.
"I only worked for two weeks. In my career as a teacher I have been removed the third time from my class."
A hand guiding another. A note of a song. A book. A calculation and a drawing. All and none for you, yet. Beating wings...harder and harder. More feathers lost...into the past.
"I didn't know what to tell him about all those troubles, but I assured him that God is carrying for us and those we left home."
Eaves, trees, a hollow. No, not a hollow for such a harsh memory- that would be too kind.
Distance again. For how long? How tangled are these paths, God?

"There a bright horizon opened for me - We will leave with all the family...The children were happy because they were children, but we brought with us the blessing of being together."
It has stopped. The rain has stopped. A pause in time to let the wings fly free. Not to touch the sun, but to enjoy its majesty. A rainbow to paint the wings and other wings that learn to fly...to bring peace to the heart.

"We proved that anybody can live these wonderful BIG JOYS the entire life, due to one LOVE to which you discovered the PATHS."
And the wings of memory fly from a moment to another - from a joy to a pain and another birth, re-birth, death.

"And that young man that felt a boundless love for his Princess, that embodied the immortal ideas of Good, Beautiful, Freedom and Truth...holding hands in front of the altar, the young man from before, now in his elderly years, with his Dulcinea they whispered a prayer:
And now release in peace your follower, My Lord, because I have seen your Salvation with my own eyes. Amen!"

Cloudy with clear breaks or silent rain...a feather to hold for those that will come. The time will clear the path and they will hold the memory of a past long, long gone that runs in their blood.


They say only special people die in a Saint day.
To someone special: May God rest your soul in peace!

I still...

.
Cradle of the sky hold my dreams tonight,
And when the stars are bright
make me feel alive.
Show me all the other beauties that we ignore
make the universe be small
so I can touch its form
Show me the time and the space
Show me the energy that makes life
Let me see a primary birth and an ultimate death.
Put me back to sleep,
so I would forget how the universe is made.
Tomorrow my life will be
a deep sleep fantastic as a show
an earthly trip far from the stars
deep into deep, but not even a breath.

Sometimes...

.
“Sometimes I wish I could stop time, chop it and put it in a box and when I need it; take out a piece or two to complete what is missing. But, this way the day will be longer and me more tired when the sun goes down…Or maybe I should put those hours in the night and sleep longer.
Sometimes I wish I could stop all my life pack it carefully in boxes and give it away like it`s not mine. But what would I be left with? A new beginning or the end of everything? I would have no memories and all this joy that I share with you.
Sometimes I just want to leave everything behind, hide myself in a grotto and there; live the rest of my life. But what about my friends and my family? Would I ever see them again? Would they accept my choice? Would I see you again? How about all the flashing screens brought by technology, how about all this tasty junk food, all the shopping choice and all the social networking?
Sometimes I wish I could forget who I am and wonder around like an alien to this planet. But would the humans accept me? Or would I be violent to them as I know anything about them. Would I feel that I don`t belong?
Sometimes I wish I could bring peace where is war and war where is peace. Would I destroy the natural course of things?”
Sometimes I want to reverse time and replay a moment, but just a moment…not the entire course of my life.”

“Why do you want to be something that you are not if you are happy?” asked the fairy.
“Why do you want all this powers if you are not sure how to use them?”
The boy stood there, on the fallen tree trunk his eyes penetrating the texture of the sky. He turned his head and looked in the eyes of his vision – a beautiful young lady wearing a long gown. He snapped his fingers and got up.
“I don`t have time for this crap! Why am I even talking to you?”

On his way out of the park her voice resonated in his head.
“Because you want to escape! Because you are prisoner of your reality! Because…”
“Shut out!” he screamed out load…and he thought his heart was sealed forever.

PVS

.

For those that have eyes to see, for those that can hear, for those that can read.
But, mostly - for those that can still feel...

Sometimes I wish I could die...young. But you are keeping me alive...alive in this state of agony. I am dead because I don`t see any action grabbing my attention. And all the life is going on around me in a blurish joy. You are keeping me prisoner, a prisoner with a special treatment. I have food and water, I have warmth and comfort. I`m like a puppet in your arms. You struggle to keep me alive, to make me move and smile. You turn my arms to embrace you, you keep my lips soft so I won`t become a corpse. But, I`m not awaken. My eyes are gazing in the deepest of your eyes. You want me to see you. But, all I can see is me – agonizing. I am static and all around me is alive. When you push yourself holding my body I can feel warm, I can feel how this warmth is penetrating my cells with the lie of life. But inside me everything is dead. There is no pulse in my veins, no energy to move into life. And I feel sorry for you, for all your fight. And all you can get from me is a tear, caressing my cheek seeping in my ear. And you think it is love, or melancholy for all the beauty I could get if I could be more active.

“You don`t get me!” I scream in my head.
And you don`t hear me. And you don`t understand me. And all you want is keeping me alive by all means, when all I want is to die, and find peace.
“You will be free!” but you don`t hear me.
Maybe you don`t want to be free.

Some days ago you told me you love me in a way I was always expected you to say when I was more vibrant. I never thought such beautiful words could be so painful. How can you love me so much now, so late when I am a plastic bag lying in bed forcefully closed and popped by an artificial thread? When I was laughing, singing and jumping in your arms, when I was holding you tight and looking deep into your eyes I was waiting for these words to come out of your mouth. But they never came! And I still wanted to scream to the world how much I loved you. But you never saw me and you never heard me!

Time passed by. I wonder how you could resist so many years in this lie. Fooling me all the time with the beauty of the world, with the beauty of your eyes. Why did you stay by my side? To tell me you love me when I struggle to die? To tell me to keep alive because you want my children as the ultimate sign of our love? What love?

I want to die. I want to die young! When I still have a little flesh on my bones, when I have a little color on my skin, when my hair it is still curly and natural brown, when you are still in power to find another love.
I don`t want us to grow old, I never wanted thus, I lived day by day and this is what life had come for – a lie of being alive. I am already psychologically dead, you can not bring me to that life again! So, let me die, my darling, let me die young!

Note: PVS= Persistent Vegetative State is not recognized as death in any legal system

Plot for an ordinary nightmare -part II-

She returns to her car and starts driving again – this time towards the boulevard, the highway – straight to her home. She will call her boyfriend in the morning to tell him why she didn’t go. “…If he believes me!”, she said to herself with a smile.

On the boulevard, at an intersection she approaches a car in front of her that has loud music and some wild men are partying. They yell and tell her to join them. She wasn’t even sure if they were zombies or not, but she was sure she didn’t like their company. In the mirror she sees the zombie’s car and she is very scared. This is the worst nightmare of her life.
She breathes deeply, hoping for a miracle to happen. She starts a litany in her head:

“This is a nightmare and I want to wake up!”

Then she whispers:
“This is a nightmare and I want to wake up!”

Then she says it load to herself:
“This is a nightmare and I want to wake up!”
“This is a nightmare and I want to wake up!”
“This is a nightmare and I want to wake up!”

***

She opens her eyes feeling her heavy eyelids. A blurish image starts to contour in front of her eyes: it’s white and white beds and … She feels her face hidden under the cover, her body numb, her eyes foggy and… silence. She is in a hospital. She feels a sort of comfort: “At least, I’m in a hospital. It was just a nightmare.”

But she can not wake up. Something is keeping her frozen in the bed. She is sedated. In a way she feels something is wrong – but she doesn’t know why. Her eyelids are heavy, very heavy; she feels she is falling again to sleep and all her strength is focusing on:

“I want to be awake!”
“I am awake!”
“I am awake!”
“I am awake!”

***

The room seems worm and cosy. A bed is the only big object in the room. Through the curtains the street lights reach the floor leaving shadows in corners. A forced breathing as out of a running is pressing the air. She shivers and jumps up from her sleep with a cold sweet on her forehead. Near her, her boyfriend wakes at her sobbing. She is shaking.
He hugs her: “Is just a nightmare, darling.”
“I’m cold,” she says and she lets herself down under the cover and in his arms. But, he feels her body as ice; her skin has become tough and has change color to a bluish violet.

Plot for an ordinary nightmare -part I-

.
The radio was the only noise she could bear at that late hour at night and even that was with a lower volume like a whisper to her tired ears. She was eager to get to her boyfriend home and sneak under the worm cover. The streets were empty, dark and silent. She was in that neighborhood that she never liked to cross at night because of its industrial old blackish buildings. Sometimes bands gathered in some hidden corner for some strange party. But now it was silence – silence like the entire neighborhood has died. If she wouldn’t have known that people used to come to work during the day in some of those buildings, she would have thought that area of town was just ghostly. From place to place a bulb with flickering light brought some color to the atmosphere.

Suddenly, a penetrating smell of putrefaction reached her nose. She thought that some dead animal was lying probably in some hidden corner, not far…, but then – a strong noise of voices – many disturbing voices disrupted her smell feeling. It sounded more then a party, like the whoops of a strike. When she turned left, she could see them coming from different directions chaotic, yelling, screaming, threatening and …bloody. And when she remarked that, the panic invaded her.

“What a hell?”
She was heading towards them, but she wanted to stop, so she lowered her speed as much as she could. There was something wrong with them. The street lights were blind, but in the light of the headlights she could see clearly the brownish red color spread over their clothes and faces and she sensed deep in her nostrils the putrefaction smell. Their walk was hindered as a baby walk. They saw her, men and women turning their frog eyes towards the coming car. She frizzed. She was seeing corps – zombies walking or getting into cars, coming towards her in a lamenting walk.

For a moment she didn’t know what to do. It was unreal. She turned in the middle of the street, hitting the curbs, and speed ed into the dark willing to return to the boulevard. Some car was following her, so when she reached a point of losing the follower, she looked for a parking spot on a street side, and she parked there. She was breathing heavily, profoundly scared. A second later she noticed there were people in the car behind her and a new wave of panic reached her brain again. But, they were hiding – same as her, balancing their heads out of the window sight. She thought fast: “They will recognize my car, so even if a lock it – they can break the windows.” She got out of the car – and decided to hide between the parapet and the car in front of her. But, out in the air, she stopped. A man, stunted was hiding behind the front weal. He saw her and made a sign with his hand for her to keep her head down. It was not a zombie, even if the lightening was poor; she could identify his clean face and clothes. They stayed there silent listening to the street noise. The noise of a coming car made them control even their breathing. The car rolled slowly, and then speed-ed again. They waited a few more moments and then turned to each other.
“How is this happening?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but raised his eyebrows as surprise.
“Is the second time I’m seeing them. And I swear I’m not going to move from here till the morning. They will be gone or they will disappear in the day light.”
“I’m going home, she said. I’ll go to my place. I need a really good night sleep to get rid of this nightmare.”

The legend of the fountain -part three

.
In the steams of the alcohol and being left alone with the young Ayla, the men started to hit at the girl. Ayla was protesting especially to the man she knew for years, but he told her to show respect as he has sold her to the stranger. The girl struggled and tried to run, but Alen`s father caught her and pushed her towards his companion. The girl screamed.

Alen heard the scream and run out. Ayla escaped and run, but the landlord, furious she won`t obey his orders and will alert the entire village run after her to kill her. Scared, Ayla jumped in the fountain to escape the mad men. Those times, the walls of some fountains were made in wood especially this high in the mountains, where stone was hard to carry. The men started to hit the walls of the fountain. Alen pushed them away, and jumped in to escape Ayla.

But, the men instead of helping them continued to hit the fountains walls. The walls crushed over the two in the fountain.

Alarmed by the screams, the two mothers also run over and seeing what happened called for help. Till the villagers came also the interior wall of the fountain crashed and those walls were made in rocks from the river. They knew for sure the kids have died, but they dug till the sun was up in the middle of the day to get at least their bodies. The mothers didn’t stop crying and blaming the two men madness.

When they got all materials out, they had a big surprise – they didn’t find the bodies. There was no water neither. Maybe the water withdrawn, but the bodies…
Seeing this, the two men said that actually the boy and the girl run away and out of the fury they destroyed the fountain. But, the people knew they were lying and they banished them from the village. There was even a process later on accusing the rich man of killing his own son, but it couldn’t be proved as there was no body to be found. The man got mad in his try to lie and knowing he was culpable.

The villagers dug even more, but with no use. It is said that probably they went to another universe to escape the madness of this one. The two mothers cried and by sorrow they died. From mother’s tears the land gave the people a new fountain – full of sorrow and salty taste.
The legend says that once in a while a boy or a girl comes along, they taste the water and fill the sadness they have left behind. The curious thing is that they never come together, it’s like they are lost and they are looking for each other. Some of them come many times in a lifetime to look for clues in this place. They see things and experience feelings.

For me, it was just a legend – no matter all the emotions it provoked in me. I still have dreams about a boy and a girl playing in the nature, I’m still afraid of water and I still wake up screaming out his name. Sometimes I wish very hard to go to that place because he will be there, or passing by…Sometimes I just wish I’d be there with him flying after butterflies and playing in the nature. Sometimes I just want to understand why.

The legend of the fountain -part two

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Many, many years ago, hundreds of years ago this place had few people leaving in. All this place that you can see around was the propriety of one man – a very rich man. Because it was high in the mountains he didn`t spend much time around here, he was mostly gone with businesses. But, his wife and children liked it. The people and nature were friendly. They lived in peace and harmony, no matter their social class. The kids from the village and the rich man`s kids were friends and always played together. He had two boys and a girl. The girl was sent to school at a certain time, but the boys remained to administrate the fortune and help their mother.
There was this woman from the village that helped them around the house. And she had a little girl, a dark hair child, just like you, called Ayla that used to play and study with the rich man`s kids. They used to play in that meadow you saw before coming into the village. Or, at least is there that most people have seen them.

The boys liked the girl very much, but none of them dared to share his feeling because of their father bitterness. The older one found a girl of his class married her and moved away in the city.

The youngest, Alen, and Ayla were about the same age, so they grew up together sharing the peacefulness of this place.
At one time there came a rumor in the village that the rich man sold his propriety to a stranger and that he only kept his house and that part of land. There was no real problem with that, but the rumor said that he also sold the people in the village. But, you know, no one owns no one. They may have worked for him, and get paid, but none of the villagers were under his ownership, as slaves. The Council of the village went to speak with the lady of the house, but she knew nothing about it. She promised them she will talk with her husband.

When he came from his trips – he came with another man and they put things together for a party with food and traditional drinks in the nature. His wife and son joined them and he asked Ayla and her mother to serve them. The girl was now a fine young lady about a high school student our days. Later at night he dismissed his wife and the older woman and asked the girl to serve and even dance or sing for them. The boy didn`t like that, but he didn`t have much to say in front of his father. He was also dismissed.

The legend of the fountain - part one

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Some time ago in one of my errant trips in the mountains I came to an old fashion fountain from which I drank water. The water was a little bit salty, which was very strange as I wasn`t in a region with salty minerals. And not only that it felt salty, but after I drank it I felt a lot of suffering filling my chest. I kept going with this strange feeling in me, approaching a village. And more closely I came to the village more familiar seemed the surroundings. With the eyes of my mind, I saw kids playing in a springlike glade, jumping to catch flowers from the trees or mites in the air. It was joyfulness and sadness in the same time.

When I first encounter a real human being, a woman in her forties caring a bag, I told her about the fountain and asked why the water was salty. She looked at me as I was a ghost my self and said simply “It`s tears” and moved on as in a hurry. I couldn`t say anything, so I moved also still full of curiosity.
It was one of those mountains villages with houses here and there with no real streets, but rocky pavement or paths and a lot of nature at every corner. I approached a group of elders sitting on a bench in front of a house, but I wanted to avoid them, as I knew if I`d start chatting with them they would talk for hours. So, I just said “Hi” and tried to move on. But, they called me…
“Did you drink the water of the fountain?”
In a fast mind search I was trying to see if there was any other fountain I encountered except the one I`ve drank from, but there wasn`t.
“Yes”, I said.
“How do you find it?”
I smiled: “If one is thirsty it`s ok. A little bit salty.”
They looked at each other and then they made place on the bench and called me over.
“Come here child”
“Why is it salty?” I asked.
“Not many can feel the salt in the water,” they said. It`s tears. You may be feeling it for two different reasons- your body is very sensitive to suffering or you are her.”
“How old are you, child?” asked another.
I told them my age at that time and they looked at one another with the same deep expression of comprehension in their eyes.
One old lady, the one close to me took my hand in hers and tapped it softly.
“Oh, child! Many will come, many will go…Many places you`ll be, many places you`ll leave…Don`t be afraid! You`ll find he …or he will find you! Not now, not tomorrow, but maybe when you`ll forget the pain that you`ve seen”
Imagine my surprise when I heard all these words. I was still very young at that time, but I knew in these places people tend to aliment their lives with fantastic stories. I laughed silently.
“Tell us what did you see?”
“What?...”
“How did it felt after you drank it?”
Ididn`t know if I should told them or not. I felt awkward.
“I saw kids playing, I said. And I wanted to leave it there.
Again that exchange of looks. And they got up and asked me to follow them.
“Come, child. We have a story to tell and show you some places. Don`t be afraid”
And I noticed we were heading towards what I knew it was the church, just because it had a dome and a cross at the top.
“There is a legend around here…” the old lady from before said.

Journey to home

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To all of you that have moved from a place to another leaving something behind

The wind was blowing her hair in her face covering her eyes. She remembered a similar scene from a cartoon, but she never felt it this way for her own. She was excited and sad in the same time. The train was moving and her hand was waving eagerly to her relatives. The distance started to grow between them and the trees hidden their bodies. At moments she could see a waving hand or a part of their body and she knew they were still there searching her in the distant windows. She remained there hanging at the window till the train turned the corner and she couldn`t see not even a shadow of them. She closed the window and sat down in her chair, smiling and staring out to the pieces of high buildings of the town.
She did leave another location before, when she was living with her grandma in the village, but she was too small to remember it – three or four years old and her mum was always there, so she didn`t miss her. This trip was the start of her new life – a new town, a new school, and new friends. And she was so excited about it because it was the first time she was leaving her small provincial town for something more then a vacation. And she had her more precious things with her – the dearest teddy bear, her diary, the necklace from her mum, her favourite book from her dad, the greenish scarf from her grandma. She thought she will bring them everywhere she`ll go and keep them safe.
She was only ten...and she never thought that first trip will be the first from an uncounted series of journeys. The new town was bigger, with large buildings and large boulevards. It wasn`t the largest town in the country, but it was big enough for her. Her new family, her aunt and her cousins accompanied her in this four years trip. A short or a long one.
And then she left again…excited and sad for a new city, and then for another one and then for another one and another one…and…so many more. She would go back to visit her family and friends, her dearest places where she walked, danced, cried or loved. But how many cities and people can you see in a short trip?
She lost her teddy bear in the A city, the necklace from her mum in the B city, she borrowed the book from her dad in the C city and she never got it back and the scarf from her grandma was so old and she gave it away to someone that was cold. The diary it was somewhere in box in the B city – but she had many more recording her feelings and actions. She couldn`t carry everything. And every where she went there was something else that became precious to her and something that she had to leave in the past. And the journeys were farther and farther.
At a certain point in her life she became familiar with very long trips leaving behind all she knew and build in few years, with big luggage of unimportant things that she will lose or replace at a certain point. And all she had were feelings and images of dear places and persons. Her tears will fall once in a while with joy of reunion or sorrow of leaving.
She wasn`t there when the close ones got ill, died or married and had kids, she couldn`t help more then a long distance talk. She was always searching for something else…, not a new challenge or a new experience, but a new home.
And where was it her home? She thought in her precious little things, she thought in the room she rested, or in the luggage she carried or in the people she loved. But, the material home was there temporary with all the material temporary things and even the relations they came to fade with time and distance. She had a very long list with friends and acquaintances. I don`t know if she ever found a place that she could call forever her home, but I know she carried always with her in her heart all the people she met, all the places she saw and all the feelings she felt.