I spend too many years and time with old people. I became like them. And forgot the young person I was. I hate old people. I totally hate all of them. I need a young face, a pair of young eyes in whom I realize these last drops of the bloody precious youth I am living out. God! I don't want to get old like this in loneliness. Is this my lot here?
There are times in which being lonely becomes almost unbearable. Moments that I am longing most and at the same time am totally left helpless in the face of facts: my limitations, weakness and basically this very person that I am(I dig into my memories again and I see that perhaps every single opportunity had no other way but to be wasted). And every time the next thing is this understanding that for me there is no other way but giving back to people, to existence whatever am looking for, whatever has been given to me for free in life. Every time I go through this pain I come to this conclusion.
Friday, 26 June 2015
Saturday, 13 June 2015
It is very quiet here which suits me and at the same time the bitter taste of loneliness fills the air in every minute.
How many very years should have gone, how many pains should have been suffered, for me once, instead of bending my head down and frowning, to actually look into her eyes and give a hearty smile. That is why youth, all those years, have been lost. That is how it was wasted out of fear and inferiority.
How many very years should have gone, how many pains should have been suffered, for me once, instead of bending my head down and frowning, to actually look into her eyes and give a hearty smile. That is why youth, all those years, have been lost. That is how it was wasted out of fear and inferiority.
Friday, 12 June 2015
Meg
It is just past noon. N. is eating and Meg after desperately moaning for the food is nervously pacing the office up and down, getting out into the corridor and then quickly comes back: she is on the threshold of her patience. Nothing but water is her lot for now. Mr C. and T. have just arrived with two fried fish plus some creamy salad for lunch. I first imagined Meg would go mad in the presence and smell of all these. But instead, after a fruitless waiting beside their desks, she turns to me and moans quietly. It seems that this poor blue cheese with pita bread which I am having today suits her better than the smelly fried fish. She then lies down on the floor. This is Meg everyday story, looking forward for the food with a renewed excitement every single day. I hate her attitude and I suppose that's why am not far off from her; only perhaps the abundant of things gives a false sense of being secured. Enough of Meg now.
Monday, 8 June 2015
The big pulse
It's now thirty minutes that I have sat out in the balcony in a summer night. It's about eleven, the sky is dark and clear and as it gets darker more stars get visible. I hear a movement among the leaves and branches of a tree to my right and a low quiet sound of a bird is heard afterwards. Then I hear another bird screaming in remote distance; passing me by it screams again right in front of me. It caught my attention. I become more conscious.
I remember and see myself quite remote and as a different person, only in an hour ago, lying on the bed in a lighted room intensely reading a poem. He is disquiet. A big pulse is beating all through his body. Something hungers and longs within him. He is lost. The imagination is fading away from my mind. I feel myself sitting here on the balcony looking into the dark. For now the big pulse beats a bit slower.
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
This is mostly from a letter to a random girl I came across which obviously again left unanswered. It was by the time I was pretty much captured and in a way being fooled by a mystical sense. Am I done with it? It seems so, though I shall never dare say so.
My Dad used to call me, surprisingly and wide-eyed, "what sort of creature are you?!" Weird and incomprehensible, both for others and myself. You rarely will see, among the people you live with, someone similar. These are a very rare type of character(and which type isn't rare?). So yes Janice, I too understand that how pleasing and assuring it is when we read works of those whom we find their experiences similar to us.
My Dad used to call me, surprisingly and wide-eyed, "what sort of creature are you?!" Weird and incomprehensible, both for others and myself. You rarely will see, among the people you live with, someone similar. These are a very rare type of character(and which type isn't rare?). So yes Janice, I too understand that how pleasing and assuring it is when we read works of those whom we find their experiences similar to us.
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