Inspiration

I was inspired by a brief encounter  with a couple, a tall slim and good looking boy presumably European and an Asian girl, who had been waiting on a queue in a restaurant in London. The way they looked in confidence, the way they slightly held their arms in intimacy truly taught me that any one is first an individual human. It encourages me now, a year later, to see more easily the goodness in D. beyond race, nationality, gender, status and the old heavy shadows of inner and society convictions. In a word encourages me to care more.

The courage of young Tom, my colleague, in bringing her girl friend in our office and introducing her in confidence and without smiling, encourages me to be honest with myself and do a similar thing, in spite of my natural secretiveness, inner hindrance and the cultural background.

The images that inspires us through our life to overcome hardship, dishonesty, the conflicts between our own needs, believes and dreams and that of society, do not necessarily have to be the big images of our time, men who have done big things. These seemingly trivial events can inspire us to make our way in stride towards a truthful and a better life for ourselves and for our race to survive.

I cannot write any more

I simply cannot write any more. I do not want to write. There is nothing much left to say or a cry to yell. Neither I want to read any fiction or poem. It is only solving problems that now has become my interest: to get to the bottom of matters. It is other kind of books that has taken my attention now.

A dark side, a dichotomy, which always has been a companion to me seems now to be fading away. I used to feel myself quite as a werewolf and in order to feel a reality a centre inside I used to cling to this werewolf and to identify myself with; I used to rely on what was basically only a half- a weak delicate half, to avoid being lost. This dark side is at a same time seems to representing both a suffering and the only possible source of goodness[?] which is struggling to emerge. Is this dark side, with all it's darkness, really deserting me? Is this tiresome struggling- this repetetive cycle of modes and events going to subside? A world full of threats and distrust towards the Other, with constant imagined reproaches for every little or big thing, with basically no sense of friendship and intimacy. A "self"(now perhaps my "self") which was deprived of love, mainly due to it's being stupid, little. A love that could give a full feeling of being accepted and for the self to spoil itself in it. All these seem to be leaving me I think(or is it not?), and in strides specially after getting to now D. who generously gave all together what in this sense I was after.

Meeting Harry

It was Saturday morning and on the way to Harry's' flat I thought about going to a different place this time. I parked the car on his road and had a look on the near parks in Worthing. Harry came quickly. I asked him whether he knew the one, which looked rather big, behind the hospital not far from the pier. He said no but that he could direct me there. We drove there. The weather wasn't cold but windy. Harry, as soon as he saw a man in short sleeves, said it load "someone on short sleeves in this weather!".

Christmas with E.

It is Thursday morning and I have arrived at Stuttgart airport. I walk out of the departures zone finding my way to the coach to Karlsruhe. Arrival time is when I usually think about time: no matter how passionate or impatient I am at the beginning or sad by the end of the trip, it paces carelessly and unconcerned to my world. I have forgotten to print out the ticket. The German speaking driver after matching my passport name with the one on his cell phone, let me get in. In an hour, which I passed it mostly in sleep, we reach at Karlsruhe central station. Despite the fact that the driver did call the stop name I am determined to ask again where we are but then I gave it up and turned back to hear a familiar voice calling my name. I saw E. in a purple jacket, kisses and embraces her; she is thiner and slimmer than a year ago. We took a train to her flat through the town. The look of the city had quite changed compare to last year same time. Refugees, many of whom speaking in my mother tongue from the neighbour country, were all over the town, in groups of young people in black jackets with their loud voices, almost shouting. The kind of language they use and the look of them suggested to me that they possibly are far from the values of this culture; rather in contrast and that it might take both sides long to come into a peaceful coexistence.

I found it much harder to write when I feel good, when I am content with myself.

When eyes are silent I find nothing to write about.

I couldn't hold my tongue once more

I wish all consequences of what I said, of what I carelessly wrote to her last night in spite of all warnings and symptoms I felt, were confined entirely to my own world alone; such that the other would not be affected by it at all. Such that if I was to expose myself to her, which I never ever should do it again, she would have taken it with a smile wondering what the heck I am talking about. But now this thought is merely what consoles me though impossible, impossible. No matter how much, the consequences will leak my world and affect the other and will reveal itself in time.

I couldn't hold my tongue once more. I couldn't restrain myself in what had to be kept silently within. I could have just been content with what she had written on her email, been content, in the long nights of loneliness, with this sweet thought that a dear one thought is with me. I could simply not.

A week ago I imagined taking my mum to this cafe and that, showing her this country town where I live and passing through the old allies and sitting on the balcony late at night drinking tea together. I desired an intimacy. Today she has arrived. Now I feel as cold and lost as before.