It’s a beautiful day outside and I had nothing to do with it. – I’m inside a room, where I sit on a chair with my head in the clouds. Up there I tumble around, to look for the source, the source from which to create. It’s a crazy thing, that thing which is desire, that sets us on fire and moves from within. The electrifier of every wire plugged in, that makes this world spin. – Currently, I long for being outside, out where the sun would caress my skin, and the breeze gently blow away the clouds of thoughts from my mind. How wonderful would it be to be there, outside.. But I’m inside, enduring the longing, pondering the longing. It’s been too long since I didn’t care. I can’t go because I wait for a sign, the sign that tells me my task is complete. the sign that tells me “you’re free! You can go anywhere that your heart wants to be…” but it takes sitting down and drudging the drudgery to get where your heart wants to be. So I stay here and dwell in misery while the sun is laughing at me. The more I think about it the more terrible the thought of missing out on this day, knowing that tomorrow it’s gonna be over.. the sky might be grey, and the world surely spinning at full speed again, not allowing me to even remember the gloriousness of this day.. so full of possibilities, all left unused.. It’s a crazy thing, to want to do what you do while missing out on so many good things in each moment, in anticipation for an unknown good sometime later – It’s such a beautiful day outside, and I had nothing to do with it..
Categorie: 10 minuten schrijfsels
tears
25-11-2014 // Tears of joy, tears of pain. water drops that clean the soul, take the salt out of the wounds and slowly, slowly heal them – from sorrow, heaviness, darkness… Water of the heart, take out the darkness of the soul. Tear to me, show me your eyes in that most honest way, show me what you’re made of. I know you’re strong as well, but your weakness is so beautiful, fragile, soft, makes me want to touch you for a moment, hold you, just briefly, and gently pick you up like a feather and show you that your tears have made you lighter. And they’re lighting up a dark that we all have – you shine it through those mirrors of the soul. The mirrors reflect me. I see a bit of me in you when you look at me like this. But i’m not supposed to show it now. You can be weak if I appear strong now. That’s how it works – but you make me want to share with you, like you share with me – for a moment. Isn’t that what it’s all about? The sharing? But your sharing doesn’t feel like I should return it, not right now, you are about pouring now, pouring your heart out, and I am here to listen, listen to the rain fall… upon my roof, filling my well, becoming a sea of solitude in which you swim. You talk in code, words that I don’t understand, but it’s ok. There not being said for understanding, they’re being said for lifting the weight. The weight, on your shoulders, on that slender body that can be so strong if it wants to – and to gently open a heart that is so full of feeling it could burst – like a shell with a beautiful bright treasure inside – for a chosen few to find, but surrounded by a fragile mass that can’t be touched, and leaving a big space around it for something to fill – fill up the space between you and the present. Now – salty water is flowing through, reminding you. //
Pepper
black grain of steamy crashing bite infused in tea to kick your ass
grind ground gravel of spices dry darkness contained by glass
kept dry, makes dry, where is my water?! WATER!
eat a banana to guard against stinging
mushy banana to salve burned tongue and cheeks
what’s up hot mamma from Louisiana cajun bom bom bom
God damn gravy and shrimps in peppersauce
black pepper springs to mind
but why do I forget the gleamy shiny redness of madame Jeanette
a cajun queen a snakebite in your tongue
don’t chew on the seeds don’t chew! don’t eat?
must come with warning
“be careful hot!”
may burn suddenly green ones burn slow
four seasons in one pepper mill
Christmas tree
24-12-2014 // Always green, tough pointy leaves that can sting like needles when you touch them, but can be soft as a brush when you stroke them in the right direction. Like a spiky hairdo, which was hip when I was in high-school. A little fetty too, like the wax that keeps the spikes spiky and leaves stickiness on your fingers. If you would crawl under, or in between two trees – like I used to do with my brother in the forest next to the house of my grandparents, looking for secret pathways or open spots, huts or holes to hide in – they would tickle.. Like the tips of fingers that softly stroke your back and give you goosebumps that quickly spread to the top of your head and the tip of your toes, like lightening striking. Like the touch of your hand, that day when my feet were cold – in that house where we had celebrated, and were grateful to be there, together as a family, even if it was just for that day – through the blanket as you tucked them in, and after that the rest of me. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon, safe and warm in a shell, on that couch, waiting for transforming sleep to catch up on us. In that room where we would wake up the next day looking out on the garden, and see the tree the hadn’t changed a bit.. //