Floating plushie

For all the people who are on the night train alone thinking about the beauty of the world - lonesome reflectionFor all the flowers that bloom after long wintersFor all the unsung heroes who were once villainsFor all the mistiest of souls who were once lost but now foundFor all the bloodshot nights and days that go untouched by loveFor all the cowards that will brave the fearFor all the boys and girls without a father figure, and a mom'sFor all those addicted to those betraying kinds of love and beauty and who don't yield in to anymoreFor all the momentum poets understand and loseFor all those people who will find love and for those who won'tFor all those that struggle with forgiveness and want to steer clear of hurtFor all those that fail to creep into the cosiest of don'ts and do'sFor all those that risk their lives to gain eternityFor the eternal, sacred time component orbiting around historical timeFor all the love left untouched, spread on the crumbs of humanity and the failure of a promiseFor all those unspread layers of niceties that hold true to a direct approachFor all the dappled sunlight that shines through trees in late afternoons while squirrels are playing and woodpeckers are hammering onFor all those slow trains that travel through the gorge through tunnels carved in stone, sort of time tunnels stuck as in a time capsule revealing bits of wonders - leaves and berries you could touch out of the train windowsTo your soul window that opens into other shut windows, soul windows, and does not care to shut but stays openFor the small towns, seemingly innocent and pure, when no soul is there to be seen in the early hours of the morning. Then, as the day is progressing, the town would eat away at its light while the dark would still dig the light out - rocks of the solid foundationPhoto: Personal Archive

I was asked if I missed or healed from missing my momFirst of all, she is not dead in the sense most of us understand deathSecond of all, you cannot escape the most human example of being a human:miss, love, miss, miss love - to the extent of not coming across it.It's very human to be able to miss the one person that gave you life and light and love and would love unconditionally, the best she could in the ways she knew.I feel I have not yet consumed the bereavementor allowed myself to fall into the sentimentality of it allI have been too busy taking overI gave the only possible answer at that time:'I'm filled with so many voids that I don't feel any, or anything'I felt once again the loneliness of not having the right people next to meI felt sick and tired of people complaining of their fearful and unimaginative ways of livingthat sometimes reflected mineI felt emptied of love and sense and purpose, maybe because of myself spreading too thinon the people that did not reciprocateor were just uncapable of love and lovingIt's not about you I've kept telling myselfMake it about others - the love, not the lack of itHowever, I could but turn to myself when I had given myself too many times to the wrong people and almost never had the right ones who would stay, just stay and be a part of my lifeI didn't want to use metaphors for this -After all, it's a confessionof someone, apparently, selfish, thinking too much of herself, and way too often these daysPhoto: Personal archiveNote: The sound of the river is real, and, hopefully not disturbing

(...) in a beguiling sentiment that,as part of the lifecloth,in the most inhumanelyhumane way, almost undivinely divine,it is worth understanding: when lifeleaves the body, the prominent feelingis not of absence but of presence

The lambs are dancingwhile rolling rocks on the shoulders of the hillsThey are singingwhilespitting salt on the bottom of the sea(...)they are dancing and in this dance there's us... ...... ..... . ... ... ..... ... .... .... ... ..................singingLiam Read's Photo on Unsplashhttps://unsplash.com/@liamread

HUMAN CONDITIONThey call it a heart. I call it the lack of it.(...)Your baby's hair grows. short Of ages of desire, Of the beat of innocence, of the last touch of candour.It grows.(...)Photo: freepik.com

Spare the sun the view it has on treesBarks that you peel as you'd like to get itwhy they don't complain (as we dowhen skin peels softly into ages of beauty unsure if only young age you'd call beauty)when their bodies fall to ground, to die, already dead or just moving into another state the micro universe feeds on(...)Photo: personal archive

Old her crammed into her vanitiesslipping her hands into time's pockets.This pocket having as big events as chasing eclipses on a starry sky, or vice versa.Verse in, vice out.The pat on the shoulder from the child they used to be, a peek-a-boo kind of sign,with a grin on those small, freckled facesreliving it once again in wrinkled memoriessuffering from not finding the fair sharebetween the past and the future.Be once again in this together.The otherness is not a thing they climb the ladder foris not a thing that happens to manyIt is one almost no one strives for when there is as much as the future can holdInsane to remain restless when you need to rest from all the burdens, flat out - there is a voice that whispers.There is a little space unfilled, or rather filled with nothingJust when you decide to jot the square into a diacritical mark called roundness of a shape unknownFlattened the Earth once again into your hands, also called 'Mmasticated grass as the path flattens out'Called as in 'named after his father's treacherous behaviour'No saint is there to praise his doings.Spend as little as you can on thisSleep wrapped into your dreamsThat prevent you from taking actionwhen you wake up.Photo: freepik

A Man of Halves (Canibalove)He bites off the whole of her as if she was no halfHe eats her entirely as if she were no halfIt sounds terrible though it isn'tIt is a story where in order to exist you have toCANIBALOVEAs that is the highest form of love:There is no half way to hell or heaven(...)Photo: personal archive