The Letter

River writes to Jude:

Hey (you),

Let’s pretend we live in a novel, where old lovers reach out through the years and send letters seeking closure and that that’s totally normal. This is just an over-due reply to messages sent long ago. I hope it’s not incredibly intrusive but it is nothing more than that, just the end of a conversation. Closure. You were in a dream of mine last night, which brought you back to my mind as someone familiar and I suppose that is what gave me the courage to write this letter.

The problem is that you were in my dream last night. I feel like there is some unfinished business that has remained unresolved and suspended in time since the time we were familiar and that, like a ghost in the form of you, creeps back in to my subconscious through the cracks of broken memories and corrupt mental synapses and I wake up writhing in pain some mornings from time to time. I guess I am too sentimental. I guess the reason why this still hovers over my head and my life is because we never really had the chance to have a tête-à-tête to talk through it all after the end and that was a bit cruel because we or at least I never reached proper closure but circumstances had to have it that way. This letter seeks to close the gaps and seal them, to let things go and remove any possible trauma. It has been 6 whole years and this is my end to the conversation.

We were kids, I know… the pictures bare witness to that; our skin still soft, our faces still fresh and pure and smiling truthfully, our eyes still filled with sparks and wonderment. I was a year older; maybe that is why I suffered a bit more because even though you knew of life a lot more than I did, I guess you still had growing up to do and so did I. Perhaps it all meant more to me than it did to you but that’s OK, I have made peace with that possibility. Regardless of our age, what I felt then was the strongest I’ve ever felt about anything – perhaps because I cloaked myself in a veil of numbness after that, unable to bare something as painful and perhaps as beautiful a second time. Or perhaps, I just grew up.
There are other loves that come afterwards, and they are wonderful, but there is something different about that first time. Perhaps I have always been infatuated with the idea…

Everything that happened then, all that I experienced with you were pivotal moments in my life and an inseparable part of my being since they made me grow to who I am today, although certainly a lot less innocent, and dare I say wiser. Perhaps because it was such a big part of me is why it was hard to let go. Perhaps my memories of everything are distorted and I can’t remember the events objectively enough for what they really were. Maybe you remember things much differently and maybe I am over-sentimental, as I tend to be. I kept your letter, the one you gave me on my birthday. This is what I remember from you, I remember you truly loving me. I don’t know if that was child’s play but in any case it is in the past. I just want the story to be a good one and I want you to remember me as you saw me in that letter. That is all I ask, to be remembered well.

I went back to read the last of our conversation that we conducted through the messages in the Book of Faces to see what the last words we exchanged were. Before my last messages (which I don’t regret too much), I was embarrassed to see how that girl spoke. I don’t exactly recognize her now but it made me realize a few things. That girl I was back then in the last days and a bit after that, was really insecure and spoke with a sense of ownership over you and assumed that you and she shared a single conscience. She was so scared of losing you, her first love, the love of her life at the time, that she went a bit mad, and in her fear and confusion she threw out all her wordy ropes trying to tie you down next to her like a wild animal that needed taming to make sure you wouldn’t go away from her. But that made you want to run more, understandably. I would like to apologize on her behalf and this is mostly an apology to myself, so I can forgive myself first and foremost. I am not that girl. However I do hope you understand why she spoke in that manner, she was so scared. She really loved you, you know. However, I don’t want anyone to remember me that way; it is as if a part of the world is misrepresenting me and I don’t want that. What else are we but the stories in the minds of the people whose lives we’ve crossed and sometimes touched? I hope you chose to remember what was good about her. If I can make any requests of you is just that: Please remember what was good about her. I shall do the same for you.

I chose not to reply to your last message back then because I was too hurt, angry and resentful and I guess nothing of what I wanted to hear was in that message, it wasn’t an apology as it claimed to be or at least not the one I needed but maybe you didn’t feel like you owed me one or maybe there were too many things written between the lines that I couldn’t possibly read since I lacked the objectivity. I can’t know, I can’t speak on your behalf; I can only speak of and clear my side.
And here is where I must briefly share my grievances. Yes, you did affect my life immensely and profoundly, equally in good as well as bad ways. I was deeply wounded and changed by it all, by your influence as well as your actions but, us humans, we do that to each other…You said you didn’t think or care enough about how I would feel and you may say it was your life and you did whatever you wanted with it and you should, but you forgot that I was still attached to you… it had only been a few days, so little time. I still carry all that with me. You disposed of me so ungracefully and I don’t think I deserved that…
The reason I didn’t reply was that I was confused, hurt, I felt humiliated; the world as I knew it had collapsed around me and I was still lost in the rubble and I had to rebuild everything, including myself. My reply would have been filled with bitterness which would show a vulnerability that I wouldn’t forgive myself for afterwards, vulnerability that I have regretted showing before, so I chose to say nothing at all. But somehow I needed to respond, there is much I needed to say and that’s what this letter is for. I finally have the words and composure to address the unsaid. I don’t wish to victimize myself, all I wanted was a conversation with an equal, as if I wasn’t a ‘stranger’ as you insinuated, insignificant and inconsequential. I wish I did have that conversation with you to put it all to rest, because it still haunts me even if it doesn’t haunt you.

We are a lot older now; 6 years have passed, we are working on our own paths in life. I don’t know how you chose to remember those times, I don’t know if and how they traumatized you, or if they are still a notable chapter in your life. It’s certainly a story worth telling for me. I don’t know how you chose to remember it or me or if you ever do. Maybe you chose to tear up all the pictures and burn up the memories and pretend that it never happened. Maybe you don’t remember why you loved me in the first place although I hope that’s not the case. Maybe I am a vague memory of your early youth. Maybe I never cross your mind…

I had to turn you into a ghost, like a work of fiction that didn’t really exist in order to be able to move on then. I guess we were lucky we were geographically so far apart. But as a result you turned into a mythical creature, a ghost that shows up every now and then without being there and it needs to go away so I’m trying to send it back to you reaching through time and space. I have moved on and I have loved again so I really have to let the ghost go, it is unfair to me and it is unfair to others.

I am still chasing my ‘dreams’, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. I’ll only keep the stories of the past as inspiration. I hope you are still writing as I have admired the gift you have always had with words, that ‘which converted [me] to [you] so long ago’ even though it fooled me at times. I hope to read your stories some day, find them in quaint little bookstore. I hope you are well and I wish you luck with whatever you do. I hope 23 year-old you is reading this with a smile. I don’t really know who you are now so I guess I’m sending a letter to a 17 year-old boy back in time. In any case, I needed to write this to end the conversation, for me, and I don’t know, maybe for you too.

We were kids, its true but we were old enough to love truly or at least I was and I will not use ‘we were young’ as a mitigating factor because that would nullify everything. In any case, friend, this is a message I needed to send, in quest for peace. I don’t require any sort of response, perhaps it’s better that this letter is inconsequential. I’ll leave that to you… I don’t even know if this will get to you but I had to send this as a letter.

If this letter means nothing to you, then, dear friend, please have mercy, do not mock me; consider this fiction, some mediocre reading material that has wasted a bit of your time. ☺
If it does, well… perhaps it doesn’t matter and perhaps I will never know.

Just keep the good stuff, alright? Safeguard that summer/year somewhere; cherish them, for the sake of fiction, for the sake of romance.

That is all from me, do what you will with these pages. Just pretend we live in a novel in another era and this is a sweet albeit poignant gesture. These pages should be read lightly and it would be better to take them with a bit of humour, which is somewhat how I intended them. In any case, I hereby free you, in an attempt to free myself. Take care of yourself. Farewell, dear ghost, I truly wish you well.

With affection,

‘River’
(An old friend who has grown up/
Someone from another life and another time.)

P.S. Always…

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A Forgotten Rendez-Vous

It was ten years from then. It was a French café on a pebble-stone road with the tables set outside. Some late spring- early summer sunshine was peering through the overcast sky. You could see some patches of blue rebelling against the grey scale of the scenery. People were passing by; beautiful people dressed glamorously, but this was not their time. In this moment they merely existed as perfect shadows speeding by in the background as something else was taking place, the most glorious scene never to be played at this celebrated film festival. Yes, there was rain, you painted-in the rain. You always said you liked winter more.

This is the picture we set up, the perfect place where we would meet, ten years from then. There were you or I, sitting at the table outside unconcerned about the rain. The drops were glowing in blues and golds on the waves of your hair. There was a smile on your face and your eyes were wandering, scanning the shadows for a matching hay of blue-you knew it would be blue. A notepad under your nervous fingertips which were drumming to the beat that sounded through your chest, and a pencil between your teeth and the fingers of your right hand, you were chewing on it as if it was a piece of straw, like the Tom Sawyer that you were, a Tom Sawyer that grew up. You watched and you waited, immersed in the scenery, drenched under the showers, I could see you.

In one version of the story, the original one, I watch you, marvel at you, I relish the poetry of your image from afar, for a few more moments and then I walk over to you. I am wearing a dress; it’s blue. You stand up and you gaze as I approach, you scan my silhouette, then you reach my eyes and your gaze reaches a stand still. You stare. You looked so deep inside, that it almost hurt. You were startled by your past image as it reflected into my eyes but you were mostly aching with nostalgia, as was I, seeing my younger self reflect in yours that same moment. You hugged me so tightly in an almost involuntary action and although guarded and hesitant at first, I let go and returned the embrace, so firmly, so softly and that moment lasted forever…

In another version, I don’t walk over. I stand there at the bridge by the river opposite the cafe observing you from afar, unwilling to instigate the action that would lead to our encounter. Maybe it’s better that way, more beautiful, more tragic, that we both remain as those antique images of separated lovers, ghostly figures with our future tied up to the faded past, both of us waifs of fiction. Maybe it is better if we don’t meet and we don’t know what happens. Because, there is this other version… in which we see each other but it hurts too much to talk, it hurts too much to make each other real again so we walk away once more in opposite directions, with tears of bitterness and scarred love meeting the rain.

And then there is this version, the one where one of us does not show up to this forgotten rendezvous arranged so long ago, the one where it is not you but I, who sits at that table in the rain, notepad under my finger tips, pencil between my teeth and my right hand. I am painting the landscape with ghosts.

Based Upon a Dream/Ghost Town…

I found myself in a town, where I had a different face. There were people there, floating as feathers. Perhaps they were themselves, just souls, with a translucent exterior. Here the souls were the substance and the flesh was the illusion.

The streets were wet and there were clouds of purple, but there was no sign of rain and no one was looking for shelter. They would sit around on porches lit by fairy lights and they would drink and laugh and talk about stories. Each had their fairy tale to tell.

I had never been in this town before and I had never seen it anywhere, no postcard or magazine, and yet in each corner there were familiar places, monuments of the past that I must have held so dear in my heart that I hid them here, built the town of them.

While I walked and marveled and talked and laughed with these other entities, I saw you- you had a different face. You didn’t know who you were, but somehow you knew me or felt that you did, although you couldn’t remember how, when or why; you were new around here. But I remembered everything for the both of us so I could show you. I guess I had been waiting for you for a long time. You smiled at me, as if we had planned this encounter back then, such a long time ago and I took your hand to take you on a walk around this town built on nostalgia.

We paraded that town like royalties, dressed in our own antique garments that so symbolized the time when we roamed the streets of the world, living the greatest stories that we have now to tell. Everyone watched as we walked by with smiles on their faces; content, as if everything had suddenly fallen into place. They drunk to young love on those small gathering tables, through their wooden cups under the soft fairy lights and the purple hues of the sky, of the streets, of their eyes. I think everyone was somehow anticipating your arrival; perhaps I had inspired them to.

It seemed that all of us were objects; thoughts, ideas that someone misplaced and we all came here to dwell, or wander. We were all connected somehow in our noble cause, but each with their separate story. Everyone rejoiced whenever one of us found the pieces that were missing and came here to find, in this place where the lost are found and the stolen returned, the place were broken promises mend.Perhaps, we were all spirits of unfinished business. None of us remembered where exactly we came from but most of us knew why we had come here, and I tried to show you too…

I knew where to take you. It was there, like an island amid the streets. Nothing more than a broken white fence, wide open to reveal a small garden growing inside an old empty pool. You know, one of those places that enchanted us so; old abandoned dwellings, rubble which nature had taken over to reclaim its ground, to reveal its power. One of those places, so beautiful in their wilderness and their mystery, with whispers of old stories inhabiting their fallen walls. One of those places where we chose to kiss, concealed from the world to share our love; that sacred holy thing- so pure and precious at the time- that was truly and solely ours, which then became just another whisper left traveling around these places where weeds overgrew to hide beauty and safeguard sanctuaries.

You stood there holding my hand and you gazed at the garden for a long time. You were feeling something, an overwhelming pull. You felt it draw you in and it shook you to the core, but you didn’t have the memories to connect it to. You couldn’t remember what linked you to this place as you didn’t remember your place anywhere. I held your hand in both of mine and leaned on you from behind, softly kissing your shoulder. Overwhelmed and confused you asked me If I had been here before. Full of hope I held tight and asked you if it looks familiar…

La La Land: Why It Is Not a Romantic Comedy and Why We Needed It

la-la-land-poster-1

La La Land: Why It Is Not a Romantic Comedy and Why We Needed It.

La La Land is not a romantic comedy, it is a pity it has been dubbed and snubbed as such. It is a movie about romance, yes, it has its funny moments and its dramatic and human moments, it has musical numbers and spectacle but it isn’t a romantic comedy. The reason it has been received the way it has this year, possibly the reason for the nominations and awards is that it stroke a chord on the collective psyche.

It is a film made by dreamers about dreams, about fighting and sacrificing for something, about pouring all your heart in it. But the heroes, despite the artist’s ego, they are kind and loving and true. They nurture each other and each other’s purpose, allowing each other to be free to pursue what they want, the relationship between each other and the relationship between each of them and their dreams being equally romantic and of almost equal value.

The reason La La Land was important this year was because it was medicinal, ointment for some deep gashes that hatred and fear and isolation had hacked the world with the past year or so. There is a growing sentiment of loneliness, of each to their own that has lunged us into some collective depression and dread and anger, but as we descend into a gloomy dystopia, the mood changes and somehow we open up our chests a bit more, we spread our arms a bit further and we crave a connection, and that is what this film does. It is showing love with truth and honesty, with vulnerability without pretenses, without the skepticism, cynicism and irony that we have been using so fervently in the 21st century as armor to protect ourselves, to be sure to be smarter than ourselves as well as each other. It is a movie about creation in the face of destruction and collapse, it is the innocence of the past reminding us that we are still human and it is OK to feel, to be vulnerable, to support each other, to be kind.

This is why, in my opinion, this film was important this year. And it may not have been the best film, not the most politically pertinent but it was true to its time despite its nostalgia, it had heart without being mellow, it had truth through its flying-in-a-starry-sky sequences and we needed it. That is what Cinema is for. This is why La  La Land deserves its love, and why it is not a romantic comedy. And this is not about La La Land…

‘Here’s to the fools who dream,
Crazy as they may seem,
Here’s to the hearts that break,
Here is to the mess we make’

xx

On the Power of Fiction: ‘Prophesying’ the Present/Future

I do not write articles and I do not feel qualified to do so, especially ones with political context although I really wish i could, especially today but I do not possess enough academic knowledge of the subject to engage in a substantial conversation on an online platform. However, I can speak of something I do know, something that has been part of my life and work since I was able to think and to write: fiction and its power and influence on culture, our collective consciousness and conscience, especially following recent international developments.

For the purpose of this ‘essay’, I hereby proclaim myself an advocate of fiction, art and their importance in our life, in history and the formation of our minds. I will briefly present a theory on why we see so many events ‘prophesied’ by [science, speculative, imaginative] fiction, coming true with remarkable accuracy. The following is not a scientific approach; it is merely speculation and musing on the subject matter, mildly informed by readings on psychology, a lot of fiction and personal experience.

Many would argue that the occurrences of our present having been prophesied by works in literature, TV and film are mere coincidence. To an extend that is true, but perhaps not entirely. There is another possibility based on some rationale.

The way ideas are formed in our minds, no matter how original they may feel or how progressive, they all come from inspiration, from necessity inviting thought on its fulfilment, problems demanding resolution. Everything we experience in our lives influences us, whether consciously impactful and formative, or in the form of little images and thoughts that become stored in the back of our minds and our subconscious, seemingly forgotten but resurfacing later in strange and unexpected ways. These could have been real experiences, dreams or a work of art you saw in a museum. In my opinion, all of them equally contribute to our becoming and inform the decisions we make.

I am in the creative industry as a filmmaker, and speaking from my experience as well as conversations with colleagues in creative professions, in our line of work we often run the risk of plagiarising something or someone we admire, being derivative, being unoriginal (a thought we dread) because ideas are formed in such a manner; inspired by something stored in and transformed by memory, reshaped and reinvented by our own personality and experiences, forming something new based on something old. Divine enlightenment is hardly possible.

This process of idea formation is not just something affecting creatives. All of our minds are shaped by experiences and daily decisions are based on ideas formed by those experiences, sometimes leading us to self-fulfilling prophesies. It is on this principle that people pursue and fulfil goals. You form an image of how you want your life to be in the future and all of your decisions are made to aid and propel you forward towards that picture, sometimes without conscious effort, although you may not always be successful. In the same manner, random impressive images (due to them being outrageous, hilarious, frightening, beautiful, comforting etc.) of something you saw on TV, something you read or something you have heard become stored in your memory and when the circumstances permit it, and you are presented with a situation similar to one presented in those images saved in your brain, the decisions you take are the ones that will lead you to the outcome you are familiar with, with that image in your mind, which seems as true as a memory. It is similar to the effect of subliminal messages. In a way it is an evolutionary attribute of humans. Any new situation creates a precedent and the reactions that we form based on that experience, inform our reactions in future similar situations. It is the way we learn, the way we remember words, how to ride a bicycle, how to breathe and how to feed ourselves.

It is therefore not outrageous to think that the reason some images from culture, from the past, manifest themselves in our present reality because in a way they are self-fulfilling prophesies based on decisions we made because of those images stored in our minds as memories, perhaps even as a form of defence mechanism; minute, seemingly inconsequential decisions on trivial or monumental matters leading us to fulfil the picture we are familiar with.

Perhaps these extraordinary situations that have presented themselves in recent days, discussed in awe, in a humorous but occasionally frightened tone, are examples of the above process and effect but they are certainly not a unique occurrence. Such examples could be ‘The Simpsons’ (2000) impressively accurate depiction of a Trump presidency, as well as a similar ‘Back To The Future’ (1989) scenario but also the way George Orwell’s worlds seem like the blueprints of contemporary reality, or the stories in the ‘Black Mirror’ anthology (2011-Present) fulfilling themselves a couple of years later (although the series is imagining a near and probable albeit eschatological future). Moreover, books and science fiction stories in various formats have always inspired technological and scientific advancements, such as Jules Verne’s ‘prediction’ of the 1969 moon landing in ‘From the Earth to the Moon’ about 100 years prior to the event. These ‘prophesies’ have merely functioned as inspirations, ideas burnt into the film negatives of our collective mind, consciously or subconsciously affecting and inspiring the work, progress, process and decisions that lead us towards these advancements and events.

I cannot be confident in the originality of the above ideas either, and I am constantly in fear of plagiarising someone, but this is my loose, over-caffeinated, possibly ridiculous theory, lacking empirical evidence and proper referencing, on the ‘prophetic’ power of fiction.

What my point is with this essay? Perhaps none. Perhaps it is that we should not underestimate fiction or art and their role in our society. Neither should we underestimate the professions within them, especially that of writers, for they do not function merely as entertainers; they provide inspiration and aid us in introspection and analysis of the self as well as the world and our position within it, they help us decipher history and envision a possible future, urging us to constructively ponder upon it, influencing us in more ways than we are aware of, activating our imagination and innovation. The pen can indeed be a powerful weapon, or rather a powerful tool.

The River

Dear friends,

I am currently working on a new short film based on the short story ‘To Potami’ by Greek wartime author Antonis Samarakis.
Take a look at our campaign video and description to learn more.

You can help us make this film by sharing this campaign to spread the word and if you chose to participate in this project further by investing in it in whatever way we will be even more grateful and delighted that you will be joining our team in this small way ! 🙂

IndieGogo Link: indiegogo.com/projects/the-river-short-film/x/9778223

Many thanks,

Georgia

The Oncoming Storm/A New Year

We stood there in the middle of the empty square, between the Christmas tree and the manger at the dawn of the New Year, before the terrifying yet comfortable stature of the church. It was quiet as an empty film set after-hours, with the occasional sounds of cars returning drunkenly from their parties or transporting to the next one.
In the distance, in the west there were dancing streams of lightning descending, connecting earth with air. The clouds with their apocalyptic sound effects and their phantasmagorical lights were advancing towards the village, glowing silver and blue. Right at the crack of the New Year’s dawn.


Some would be weary of this if they would think of it superstitiously. But after years of experiencing the gradual deterioration of everything we held granted for decades, in a mute and passive slumber full of lamentation, there was a thrilling and supernatural excitement instilled in us by the approach of this natural blend of currents and electrical charges. So we looked on and smiled.
The lightning flashed and lit a spark in our dark sleepy hearts.


Let the oncoming storm roar and roll and shout and explode, let it reign and awake the somber ghosts and return us to the life we ignored, with the soundtrack of the rock and roll, rising and running, fighting, electric, against oblivion, roaring and rolling, glorious and victorious with the on-coming storm. Thus it was that we welcomed a NEW Year!

Have a rocking, glowing, electric one!

Conjoining Our Damages

At least we recognized the elephants,
even if we refused to acknowledge them.

All those silent pacts we made
to keep our hearts safe…

But for a heart to truly beat,
it must be put in danger.

That, we knew…

We just couldn’t be so brave anymore

Because we had been, once before…

Navel Gazing

Bound to buttons… what a farce
Sprawling out webs of connections
to a Cloud
to feel at one
With what?
Desperados and clowns
Navel gazing for the crowds
inside your head
I loathe this but I give in and give up
and I get tangled up
regardless

And on my belly I see the mark
That reminds me that is how I began…
Bound to chords and buttons from the start…
And the how’s, the why’s, the what’s,
The enigmas, for aeons unresolved, remain intact
There are just different shapes of buttons
and the same matters of faulty wiring up

Hey, Mr. Someone, you messed up
I think…

The Self That I Lost In The Rubble

Little Tiny Box Under the Bed

(An oldie….)

Now life’s a lament
For the fairytale that broke
And the self that I lost in the rubble
And im told to get up
And that I have to make up
With this unfamiliar shadow

Well I’m pinned down by rocks
made up from all those words
That I never spoke
And how I wish I would have!
But how could I talk as my soul was being torn
My voice lost
And my innocence stolen

Everything we made up
Was falling apart
Exploding so fast, so far
I’ll never find the pieces
I don’t know where to start
I don’t know if I can
I don’t know if I would have

I had to sit and stare
At the world as it was shuttering
Lack of light, lack of air
How can you speak,
How can you scream while you’re vanishing…

I Didn’t Know You, But I Can’t Stop Thinking About You

BlogI didn’t know you, but I cant stop thinking about you
None of us can comprehend.
Today our village came to say goodbye
A filled-up temple a filled-up church yard, with
People you knew and loved
and people who didn’t know you, but couldn’t stop thinking about you
So they came to say goodbye

Black shadows, red-eyed shadows, weeping silently,
In their heads,in all of their heads a prevalent scream
WHY, why why?
None of us can comprehend

Chance, odds, a matter of luck
A tasteless game of Russian roulette
It just chose you.
Why you? Chance
Why why why
No one asks it out loud anymore because the question is excruciating and exhausting
Because there is no answer, there is no reason why;
Chance…
And none of us can comprehend

We visited you in the hospital.
So many that loved you stood there waiting
They held on to a string of hope
And prayed hard for a miracle
On pictures and bones of the Saints,
crosses and bracelets,
oils from Holy grounds
With visiting priests,
They held on to eachother’s hands and stayed by your side
Day and night,
With you sleeping in the next room behind a glass window
Just like the day you came to life,
But this time you were going.

Your friends, who were preparing with you for a new life a few days earlier
Who had to sit on desks the next day, next to your empty chair
To write some letters and numbers on a page
That would determine their future ahead…
How funny that notion seems now…
The future…
They sent them home to study. Their exams were important they said…
But as they drove back in their car,
Sighing out your name, they gave up
‘I will just stay behind another year.’
‘I HAVE another year’
You dont…
How insignificant those numbers and letters on those pages…

And today they all stood around your final bed,
Smiling at your beautiful face, that they wouldn’t see again,
They sang your praises, and they sang you away,
The drums scared your mother…
Who turned around to check in case they scared you too
She forgot….
The thud of the dirt covering the vessel that held your body
Scared us all…
None of us can comprehend.
We could never understand death…

I don’t know if you can see, but let me tell you
Of the people walking on their porches with their face turned to the ground,
You wont hear laughs today
You wont hear loud talkers.
They are all just listening to the deafening scream in their heads of
Why why why
‘He could have been my child’
Some didn’t know you, but none of us can stop thinking about you…

We all said goodbye as the sun set behind the horizon today
And we were sure we witnessed your soul rise above it.
‘Goodbye son’, we told the sun…
Sweet Dreams

I didnt know you but I won’t forget you…

* In memory of a young man from my town and his friend who lost their lives last year on the road for no reason whatsoever… May you Rest In Peace.

Screen Shot 2014-10-14 at 01.30.55

Once Upon a Time

Hook

In sheltered rooms, showered in fairy light
We went to bed with a smile
Dreaming of Gods,
Of our Hero’s worlds
We were waiting to be chosen.

It was only a matter of time

Until we were allowed entrance,
Until the truth was revealed,
Until the power of magic was placed in our hands,
Until a legendary sword came to crown us kings, queens and knights

We would lay awake for a few moments,
Sneaking glances at the window
Just to see,
If Peter will show up tonight
It was only a matter of time

Aware of reality and set adamantly against it,
We just believed with all the strength of a young heart
That the time will come…
We would finally see what it is like
To fly
Amid the stars on a blue breezy night
To see the world from up high,
Higher than all the others, so much higher
Until they seem like fireflies
Trapped on Earth

Un-like us…

Neverland was waiting.
We prayed not to grow up
‘Mummy, don’t wake me up,
I’m flying’
But at the same time we wanted to rise…
To be heroes and knights
You must be big and wise

And It was all a matter of time.

There was a place beyond the setting sun
And towards it we would ride
Because there everything ends happily
And everything is Right

It was all waiting there; Glory, Love…
Fiestas set up just for us
To be draped in bay leaves,
Decorated with golden beads,
Given the heroine kiss
Because we fought with thieves
And slayed all the dragons,

We would be praised and embraced,
Songs made and sung for us
Because we were the Noble and the Good
We were the light, we were the Sun

But as a matter of time,

Something happened
And it all turned a little darker

Now in the mirror I see the villain, I see the foe
He is the answer to the ‘prettiest of them all’
I feel I know him more, I understand him
I think, perhaps I even love him.
We share a drink,
We cloak ourselves with smoke
And we talk
About the times when Good still, was our soul

I see through his terrifying scars,
What we were, what we are,
A hook that covers a missing part,
A sharp, lethal weapon replacing empty hearts,
Harshness to match the beauty that’s lost,
Shadows covering bright eyes
Fear of the sound of the crocodile
With the ticking clock for a heart

Oh no, Run! It’s ‘Time’!

Villains we are now, turned,
Returned as damaged goods,
For, that world beyond the sunset
had a set of rules,
‘No entry’ for the bold,
‘No Entry’ without gold,
‘No Entry’ for the dark
Who lost the light
When they were wounded in the Fight

It’s Spring and Winter’s Past…

Moonbeams shine
On the almond trees,
Snowflake petals
Float through the scene

Just like the day we met,
Just like the day you left.

I sit on the roof
And try to grasp
The smells, the breeze, the falling stars,
The song we sang
When we discovered Love

But I fall through the void
Like a wounded dove.

Wind through my hair,
I reach to touch
Your hand as you did
When you felt my heart.
It’s Spring and Winter’s Past.
I tie my body with my empty arms.

I thought I heard you whisper, love

It’s Spring and Winter’s Past…

*Inspired by a floral duvet