I walk through a corridor full of  small cellular rooms and look into them: a bed at one end with a young lady laying on. I gather it's a brothel. It costs me only a pound. I feel with my fingers the very coin in my pocket. I look through the embedded window of the last room and see a young girl on the bed. I am thinking of getting in.

A moment later I am next to a man, perhaps a friend or the owner of the house, on a street and presumably are talking. The same girl is about to cross the junction. The light turns green and she is walking her way to the other side. The guy sees the situation, immediately runs to her and grabs her arm lest anything happens.

Lost

"You sound somewhat lost A.; I hope you manage to find yourself one day."
How right she was.

"Where has the last decade gone?"

I passed every single day in a renewed hope. The last day as fresh as the first. All in vain. We are blind. How different things would have been if I never hoped from the start.

Either you help others by your hands or thoughts, or else just "try always to be quiet" and pray.

"His impertinence in loving this girl was fantastic."

"How could he ever make it plain that it(her love) had cured him from frivolity?"

The water changed to tea, what was formless took a shape.

(only in terms of existence and definitely not in transparency).

A letter which left unanswered

It was Saturday night. I said to myself the shop closes by 5.pm on weekends. No chance. Then as hope and disappointment usually comes in tandem and to keep myself going, I thought that if by any chance it was open and she was there I would turn right, as if it was my initial path, go straight toward Francis street and would enter the shop and say “Hi, how are you today? How has your day been so far?” And then? My imagination stopped here. I was pretty sure that the Subway is closed at evenings on weekends. Now I was in front of the Francis street, opposite of the Level; Not that I have been engaged in those thoughts all along the way. Though this is all I can remember after a week.

One shouldn't give too much thought to his hopes although they silently might stand still in a far corner of one’s mind. (Now I have just got off the train at the Brighton station and, while sitting on these new benches under the orange-yellowish light, am writing this letter. I fear that while I was getting off the train I would lose the track of what was passing in me.) Anyway, I looked through the dark street in which the Subway is at the other end: Open, just like as it is during the week, and apparently, as far as my weak eyes could see a rather tall person was busy working there. Two teenagers passed me. I slowly took a few steps forward and stopped. What now? Had I not been so determined? But I didn't know what to say in case I got in the shop. My imagination hadn't gone further than opening the door, stepping inside and saying a weak ‘Hi’. A mind that every now and then goes blank and leaves me helpless on my own. Poor poor me. Taking a sigh, I got back.

Two voices

In persuading of “beyond”, which after all perhaps was nothing but maturity, intimacy or a better life I achieved nothing but only hurt myself. No one, no one never ever did harm to me more than I did to myself by my foolishness. I hurt this flesh this perfect healthy body that was given to me only by not eating properly, thinking that something good, a new self would come out of it.

One voice: I am sick. These stages are nothing but signs of sickness. I have almost every sign of eating disorder habits. I am deceiving myself by these ‘mystical’ terms. I'm not able to overcome my stupidity.

Another voice: You do not want to let anything born nor die. You fear change. You want/long for the change, you constantly speak of it but you don’t want it to happen without it passes through you.You want change and you want this self this very voice to be left unchanged: impossible. 

Three Stages

Three stages. One after the other. One on top of the other. One in the heart of the other. All instinctive, machinery states. It has been with me for (four?)years. May be it never leaves me. Or perhaps this current of life is now getting extinguished within me. Or perhaps I am just tired. It seems that it has failed to accomplish its aim (whatever it is). They're now less intense and more mingled with the understanding of my own misery and therefore slightly less compulsive.

Symbol

"I have never broken a promise."

What are symbols? Where do they come from? From what depth do they emerge? What are these mute images that don't talk to us but through them true transformations happen? Symbols of our friends, perhaps at teen, or things that remind us of a forgotten, that still don't leave us in our dreams & consistently knocks on our door perhaps for years & years. "it can be delayed infinitely".

It would be impossible now for two "to get along". Impossible. One must die; Eros must die; Thanatos must overcome for the symbol to speak. No, rather for us to become the symbol. Till the next stage where Eros is powerful enough again & the other must pay the balance.And here we are again, usually in the middle, bewildered & helpless between these powers that make us feel joy, madness or power.

I weep, and weep. I come to understanding that it is the obscenity I live, the beastliness of the life I live on. I am weeping on my own misery. Could I live as beautifull as sun and as clean as the blue sky? I am kept here within myself at the moment.

This is me

An illusion that seeks existence. An existence with no centre.

A person who lacks the courage of being, of being himself. Who basically lacks a sense of reality, originality. Who is not grateful enough to what Existance has given to him & an inner voice that is always complaining. A fool small creature imagines himself being the most-important. A boy, a poor self, who didn't die at the right time when he was to die in order to let the new life emerge.

A poor self who for years was literary under the heavy powerful shadow of his father. who couldn't deliver himself from the burden of society convictions, their definition of 'good' & of 'bad'. And necessarily, logically the natural process of growth stopped since the required death didn't take place, since the fear was much greater.

Aah, who seeks most answers in eating.