Flight

"And this Love shows itself more in adversity than in prosperity; as light does, which shines most where the place is darkest."
LDV

~

She feels as if her heart is getting crushed under the weight of her worries - of the world. And deep down, she wonders how she made it this far, how she kept her relative sanity. I wish I could tell her that within her heart lies a universe, one that could never be filled by neither sadness nor void, a universe that can magically hide its light behind her eyes. But I can never tell her that. Because we don't speak the same language. Hers is for those who think they belong here. And mine is, well, for me - and probably for some of those who don't.

Her child is sitting in the back of the car, his eyes glued to the rear window, his chin resting on the numbness of interlaced fingers. He's wondering why none of the strangers are noticing him, how caught up they are in their own reality - behind seatbelts and clothes and skin. His lips are unintentionally moving to the words of a revolutionary song, unaware of how much their color rhymes with martyrdom, and that they will one day kiss both the idea and the meaning behind it - that the depth of the word is the depth of the hurt. The child was enslaved by his loneliness, hoping to be freed by love. So, perhaps, he was not truly a child.

In his artistic attack against homosexual oppression in the 1970s, a Greek poet came across a rather wonderful metaphor. Today, its modern English variant is phrased as follows: "They tried to bury us. They didn't know we were seeds." Clearly, the use of this fine alignment of words became far more general, spanning across every corner of the infinite concept of freedom.

More tears have been wept for fictional characters than for "the broken, the beaten, and the damned." And those tears could easily flood all the poor and unfortunate along with their possessions. It kind of makes you wonder why we fall in love with fictional characters; with people we don't truly know. And it makes me wonder how many times I was someone's fictional character. Also, the whole thing reeks of hypocrisy.

[...]

"The past is already written; the ink is dry."

And like each lone paper that was written on, folded, and thrown into oblivion, never to be found again, I became what I became. Though I remain unread, I became what I became. And, maybe, I refer to the bits of papers that became me as an unregistered aircraft that can never crash to the ground just because - Because the ten-year-old version of me closed his eyes and pretended that his hand-made, heart-thrown paper-plane disappeared in the horizon.

The ink is never dry. It's in every teardrop, blood-drop, breath and sigh.
And your shadow will always spell out your form, until you find the right alignment.

The ink is never dry. It's right there in your eyes.
So whenever you're not pretending to be a grown-up, use it well.

~

"Things that are separate shall be united and acquire such virtue that they will restore to man his lost memory."
LDV

Light

"If I could be with you tonight,
I would sing you to sleep.
Never let them take the light behind your eyes."
My Chemical Romance

~

I try my best.

What if your best isn't good enough?

But what if it is?

The walls slowly close in, aiming to crush my explosive mind. And I keep staring at the foreign paintings that decorate them, the faces of the people I love. I keep telling the walls that I can't breathe. I send them my pathetic requests with broken eyes because the words won't come out. But it's all in vain. For once you turn your back on the walls of your heart, the walls of reality turn their backs on you. Thus, still, hopeless, I remain a fan of the intensely dramatic, as loyal as ever to the wonderful realm of fiction.

Masks divide you. Dishonesty tears you apart. And the most beautiful things you feel remain inside your head. "Once a liar always a liar." "Once a quitter always a quitter." The voices lie because you subconsciously command them to destroy you. To overcome this, you must remember that one can never cheat their way into and out of destiny. Fate's hand floats around your heartbeats to see which are worthy and which are failed. Will remains free though. Someone I once knew taught me that.

But the world is ugly and sometimes the people we know and love, they become forgotten memories.

But sometimes, we meet someone that restores our faith in humanity, in love, in art, in the future.

And when the past comes back to haunt what's left of you, you find yourself just staring, obliviously flooded with thoughts of surrender, with ending credits flashing. "No, hold on," she says. You see a young soul masquerading as a veteran warrior, telling you that the love in her heart can fight off your demons. She hugs you, pushes you and starts running, leaving you with a gentle warning, "if you don't get up and run with me, you'll never know what happens in the future." And as she runs away from your gaze, you see a whisper flowing through her smile, "our future."

Life is full of surprises.

If you haven't met yours yet, I really hope you do.

Now, look around, after you close your eyes. Those people you love so dearly, are they not worth the pain?

Do not stand your ground as you face the storm. Run instead. Run toward it with weapons of heart and soul. Fix your eyes on the mountain you wish to climb and charge. Run with faith and conviction and you will find that they are the perennial wings of cosmic resonance, smoothly extended from your skin, mirrored in the light behind your eyes.

Run and know, that most storms are made-up ghosts. And though some are future dreams disguised as endless nightmares, you still need to keep your eyes closed wide open, because those details are divine.

We live and die in love. And a fall into shreds today is a chance for us to pick up the right pieces, the ones that can make up a whole that won't break tomorrow.

The music plays on within you, no matter how many doors you close.

Live on, dear friend.

~

"As we fade in the dark,
Just remember you will always burn as bright."
My Chemical Romance

Emoh

“Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” 
Anton Chekhov

~

Shadows form when the light is blocked. And while many stipulate that dark shadows often stand in the way of beautiful colors, the truth is that this darkness is merely the vacant spot of unexpressed light. And while the obstacle moves closer to the source, the shadow grows, larger and larger. As a reaction, the source usually increases its intensity, making darkness darker, and turning the edges from which we fall into it to mysteriously shimmering black gold.

So it is likely for a shadow to appear as an intricately ornamented enigma which life challenges us to unlock when, in reality, the complex design perceived is one projected by the mind. The latter is one of the pieces of the puzzle. You can measure its edges and understand its limits to see the source behind it or you can simply fade into its appeal.

At most, if not all moments, our soul attempts to express something through our mind. The message is corrupted by the noise of false assumptions, misplaced desires and, most commonly, a dishonest sense of self. Naturally, the sources of noise overlap. And while only a magical blend of love, faith and wisdom can redeem the purity of the message, it is essential to remember that in a single life, a multitude of souls and minds are part of the equation.

Now, when you look at something, a wall for example, or a screen, there's always that distance between you two. And sometimes, when you truly focus on that space, it makes you lose focus, and it feels as if it's transferring you to a different world. It is in this same world that people imagine scenarios in their minds, scenes or memories of scenes that make them smile or blurt out parts of a forgettable script in front of strangers on the street. It makes sense now how, throughout my life, I had felt most at home while walking empty or nearly empty streets. It's always that same distance, that same space. You can choose to drown or swim in it. You can ride its tireless trains or just watch their fictional and occasionally thrilling accidents. You can visit people there, like those who stopped being in your life or those others with whom you've shared not more than a single honest gaze or conversation that was cut short by the ways of life. Clearly, this personal space differs from one person to another. Mine happens to be the closest thing to a constant home that I've ever had. And though it merely looks like a worn-out piece of stained crystal glass onto which my thoughts are registered with a permanent marker, the chaotic scribbles, graphs and figures have become like the curtains to a window. And these curtains seem to have far more appeal than the outside world.

I don't know if you've ever come and sat by my side because my eyes have always been locked on the tainted window. All I know is that I've been sitting here forever, slowly writing on fragile glass, painting layer upon layer of imaginary curtains, secretly wondering why the people outside can't see me. And right now I don't even know if there's a door behind me if anyone wants to come in.

Shadows form when the light is blocked. And my window is covered with curtains of words and faces, memories and dreams, lies and confessions, numbers and profiles; a drawing that makes no sense. Yet. fortunately, sometimes I can discern a distance between the window and me, and when I do that, a soul-sent message finds a peaceful place in the chaos, filling in the blanks with meaning, blanks I thought were vain bullets in my heart.

But it turns out that's where the light goes in, through the puzzle piece, through a letter your soul sent to you. . 

So where are you now? Are you sitting next to me? Can you see these rays painted with the light of meaning? 
A four-letter word shines through the specific locations of the puzzle pieces on the window of the story of your life. 
[...]

I've always believed that Art is an explosion and that Love would one day gracefully bring the old tainted piece of glass to pieces, to fireworks for two soulmates that sneak out of their windows for a late night embrace and a loud conversation under the night sky about the stars above them,followed by a silent one about the stars in their eyes. But, perhaps, I'm wrong. You might very well be this light that's piercing through, and I might even be yours. And, perhaps the light is divine. Either way, love is not the explosion of the glass-like story of your life, it's just an exchange of light blocked by whatever obstacles you have floating on the surface of your eyes. 

Some waste their lives trying to solve equations in the dark, with numbers and variables that only exist in that personal distance that no one else can see. Others waste it by breaking out, with shards of glass broken in their pupils, not knowing that a light not seen through one's own eyes makes them slowly bleed out till the human in them becomes too ghostly to be alive.

Perhaps love happens when a window momentarily functions as a mirror.

So look closely until you see the reflection. Or maybe just close your eyes. 

What do you see? 

Is his window hers and hers, his own? Or have they built a secret passageway in-between?

Who do you see?

Were they unknowingly sleeping next to each other all those nights they thought the bed looked too empty?
Were their fingers interlaced this whole time? 
And are they now both smiling at the same reflection?

I don't see any reflection.

Are you here?

Are we home?

~

"When you look in the mirror, do you look at yourself, or for yourself?"
Unknown

Exception

“The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.” 

Kiran Desai

~

An old friend once told me that anyone, no matter how much you love them, can be replaced by someone else. I still remember how I laughed and told him that his statement is an insult to everything I believe in, and that his view of the world is very sad. I recently met up with this friend after a few years of distance and when I saw him he still had that same look of detachment in his eyes. He thankfully knew me well enough to skip the small talk and the fake bullshit, and a minute into our conversation, he dropped the bomb, with his careless gaze piercing through my supposedly heavily-armored mind:

"What happened? Your eyes look almost as faithless as mine."

My reaction was that I looked away, downward then to the right with that smile people wear when someone sums up their past with a catchphrase, the same one they use when a very close person unknowingly calls them by the word that strikes at all their inner scars. It was at that moment that I realized how right he was about almost everything and how I simply couldn't see it because of my childish ideals. I wanted to discuss the "anyone can be replaced" issue but whatever I was going to learn wasn't worth reminding him of the people he lost. Instead, I shifted the subject from faith in people to faith in God and then to the difference between faith and religion. 

I didn't tell him what happened because I didn't want to boost his faithlessness. 

But it's actually plain, simple and uncomplicated: We're all the same. We are the forgotten that forget, selfishly replacing the people who once lived in our hearts. We're all the same. And it happens in a blink. You spot a stranger and you close your eyes with the feeling that these strangers have become family, that they're an immortal part of you. And then, a few years later, you open your eyes to see that they're strangers once again. More importantly, you see that your wish upon a stranger is sadly a very common one. We're all the same and everyone keeps blinking at the strangers around them. We're all the same, used and replaced, using and replacing our own hearts, as if they meant nothing to us. We're all the same, a faithless dreamer whose memories were dreams that never happened, whose words of love were perhaps just a love for words, and whose hugs were terribly, terribly convincing lies. We're all the same, replacing old words and feelings with new ones. 

You recently told me that I was different from everyone else you've ever met and I told you that I see beautiful things around you. I should have added that I'm not different, that we're all the same. But instead I told you that I'll be leaving soon and you told me that you would give up the world for us to stay together. But I didn't say anything because you used a word that an old version of me used to share with a girl who was once just like you.

I don't know how you manage to remind me of how I used to be when I was a kid, how you talk and smile like that girl used to when she was a kid, how you don't mind that you sometimes remind me of the person you replaced and, most importantly, I don't know why I can't stop seeing beautiful things around you. I don't know why you feel like an exception.

So what happens next? And why are you here at such a terrible timing? What if we're all kids pretending to be grown-ups? And what if I told you that my once empty heart doesn't feel so empty anymore? What if I told you that I'll have two pictures of you in the apartment? Would you come visit, accidentally fall asleep, and wake up with your head on my shoulder in both picture and reality? Will your smile still be broken then?

What happens next?

~

“I’ll rearrange my love for you like I’ll rearrange the living room furniture. But first I have to replace everything.
” 

Jarod Kintz

Dream

"So go on, Love, find a new direction."

Mayday Parade

                             ~

I keep having this recurrent impression that all this is a collection of interwoven dreams. And it seems to me that every person I know really has no idea what's going on; they don't fully understand the story beneath the dream. Meanwhile, I sit here watching them, surrounded by mirror-like holograms, gateways through which I convince myself that I understand their dreams. Now, knowing that we're all the same in some sense, I wonder what kind of dream I'm living in, and what kind of life I dream of. I do, however, know that if I live enough to become really old, I'll have plenty of stories to tell about all these mirrors around me, and like most or perhaps all people, I will try to subtly mention how I played a nice small role in the lives of the people I loved; or maybe I'll keep that part to myself to be able to sleep at night.

Perhaps the motive behind these words is to tell myself that I'm a mirror too, that I'm not invisible and insignificant, that I'm neither broken glass nor darkened dust breathing through the projections.

Either way, for now, I sit and watch, stuck between the void and the light, hoping that the heroes around me will rise above their struggles, and that those I no longer have the chance to see find love and faith and, one day, themselves.

All these wishes upon a dream, they vanish in the blankness of my thoughts, slightly beyond the numbness of my nerves. They dissolve at the edge of the mirrors before they reach my personal space - the one I refer to as a castle when I want to compensate for my lack of confidence and as a fortress when I want to hide my trust issues.

All these wishes upon a dream and, still, last night, she asked me to make a wish. And she had no idea what I wished for but for some reason it made her smile that I breathed death into the candle, probably because she sees life in the little things.

All in all, it was a beautiful day with wonderful people. If there were a detached narrator, he would probably focus on the view from the rooftop. But for me, the real moment was in a subway that didn't know our names around strangers who probably thought expensive brands could make their names and bodies more valuable. The real moment was timeless, and independent of space, and it knocked at the door of my fortress.

In all honesty, it took me a while to understand that the world I live in is mostly about decisions, sometimes about actions and rarely about words, that when you read someone else's words, you only understand what you wish to understand, that all decisions are real actions yet some actions are a waste of time, that all actions are meaningful words but some words are a waste of breath. And regardless of what I say now, you probably have no idea what I really mean because whoever you are, you're just like me, stuck in a dream that you don't understand. Yours is perhaps in a painting that you can't draw yet while mine is in a book written in an ancient language that I don't understand.

In any case, whatever you choose to name your painting, be sure to figure out the name of the artist(s) first.

All those wishes upon a dream and I sit and watch them float around me. I slowly watch them die just as slowly as I realize that I don't deserve them.

Sometimes, the dream deserves a better dreamer. Sometimes, dreamers die because their dreams become nightmares. Sometimes, the dreamer and the dream don't know that they're the same person. Sometimes, they just want a good night's sleep and sometimes they just need to wake up. And sometimes, time kills them both with a single shot to the heart. But sometimes, in a flashing moment, you understand that your dream is a mirror, and you wish for it to be unbreakable. And that is how a dream triumphs over time and destroys it in a single, eternal moment of love, most real, most true.

Once upon a dream, I folded the night and my heart into the wings of a paperplane. 

Once upon a moment, the plane flew and disappeared in your eyes.

And one day, the morning sunlight will seep through the windows and fall upon the covers covered with our scent. And my eyes will be open and yours will be closed. And the paperplane will reappear - at least in my imagination - and the wings of night and heart will unfold. And that's when I'll tell you the story behind the wishes upon the dream.

I'd start at the beginning, where most things usually end:

"Once upon a time, I met this girl [...]"

And once I say that, you'll smile because you want me to know that you're only pretending to be asleep.

Then I'll wake up.

In the symphony of silence, we remember moments.

Yet, in the melodies of noise, time makes us forget.

                              ~

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

Albus Dumbledore