As i am scared of I...

image: Helena Georgiou

The desperate nights, and ecstatic state,

The aroma of hopes, and endless fears,

The drenched body, and being insomniac...



Creeping within my flesh are some wild habits,

And like a stubborn shadow, I run from them,

But alas, they never let me go!

Ah! I forgot to call it my high class ego:

Indeed I never wanted them to go,

Or maybe i did?



With all these darker times, and purple moments,

Burdened breaths, and a conscious relish;
                                       
The clock in the background is ticking,
                                       
The climax of painful aims is reaching,
                                     
The revelation is all at once!
                                       
Time is all that is counting,
                                     
Oh, will I survive these terms?

                                     


What shall I tell you about my story?
                                       
Everyday, I make life a bit at my mercy,
                                       
Or otherwise i have got wild habits;
                                       
And like a dark past, i run from them,
                                     
As i am scared of I:
                                     
And that makes me what I am.

What if?

LIFE- it was too short to ask questions, it always had been. Still, these curiosities and those inabilities don't go away, they implant themselves deep in the midst of your heart and they grow, and as they grow and penetrate within your flesh, they transmit a disease, and diseases always give you pain. And grief. And regrets. And past. And the memories. And they never go away, they wait somewhere near your skull, making you conscious of their presence, like a dog. They always urge you to take risk and ask questions to satisfy them, to satisfy you. But what if they would have let you be free, to not to ask questions, to sit dumb and listen to the music of surroundings, small whispers, voices of small life around, voices of distant areas. What if they would have let you to sit for a while in the middle of nowhere and cry and cry endlessly and furiously for your madness, your Infinite Joy? What if, if they would have let you to believe in those small things (or maybe big things?) caged with brief moments (or maybe long moment), moments worth enough to change the outcomes of entire life, moments worth enough to make you what you were, and what you were supposed to be (or maybe what you were not and what you were not supposed to be). What if they would have let you to believe in living, and living to its full and till end, and what if they would have let you to feel and live through fear, danger, hunger, thirst, pain. What if, if it would have let you to carry on, even if you were battered and bruised, blacked and blued? What if, if it would have let you to sense fullness of nothingness? What if?

But then you say, it's done, and what's done can't be undone. Simple as that. But is it really simple as that? If it were simple as that, life wouldn't have had given you the ability to reminiscence the past, it would have let you to tear away your yesterday's story, like pages from a book. But it didn't. Probably it cares for the good moments you had in you past... But still, is it simple as that?

Is She That Worth a Storyteller?

Is she that worth a storyteller?

All the Norths and Souths, and Easts and Wests,

Would she be gathering all those together?

And those scattered meanings that they possessed?

Sometimes high and sometimes low,

Would she cast a spell upon her listeners?

With the magic of her voice,

Would she be showing them dark at day,

And light at night?

Would she reach the core of their hearts?

And resonate it like strings of a guitar?

Would she see their tears of pain,

Their desperation of agony, their praises,

Would they be left all in vain?

Would she sing a lullaby to them?

Lullaby leading to their hidden chronicles?

Would she unfold the pages of their books?

And would they be left bruised at her sharp looks?

And would they sing the song with her?

Breathless and soulful, would they scream?

And would they bow before her?

Or maybe worship her?

Is it just the cause of mere storytelling?

Or is she that worth a storyteller?

07-04-13

From a Distance...

The love vanished away with time, it evaporated from the times of a distant past, but still, whenever she listened to that song, she was embraced by that same warmth and beautiful scent of the sunsets and sunshine those days offered. She was like clinging to that memory, although the love vanished, the excitement faded, she was still like not letting him go, as if his memory filled her, completed her, contented her. And what exactly was her love? She saw him from a distance, loved him from the distance, kept him with her secretly, as if it was enough for her, as if just that beautified her. She was just so fragile to only create a secret world with him(or secret world with her heart as nobody knew. Who knows?) and that was just enough. And now that the memory came back with all it's essence, she felt like not letting him go, as she was still on that same point, still in love personally, and she felt like holding on to those small pleasures and happiness that life could offer again. Probably this loving from a distance was an attempt by her to love herself, to care for herself as the point to ponder is that her love was only known by her and that she only loved from a distance. And now that the memory came back, probably she was in need to love herself again, to care for herself again...