Still.

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Face it. That you cannot go on without me. Toss that pride aside and let it out. Put an end to the torment of never knowing which way the wind is blowing.

I still remember…the crazy ways of starting an argument and never settle until the truth had sweated out of our bodies. I still reminisce the endless walks down our own happiness spree, ignoring everyone else, because everything else, it simply didn’t matter. I  can still feel the dance after all the music had stopped and the passionately maddening sound of your voice. I carry on to still remember us. Do you?

I still crave for that love and I am convinced that no greater one could ever exist. I am not afraid or ashamed to acknowledge it, life is too short and too cruel having put this distance between us. Make it vanish, take it away or fill it with more memories of us. I cannot picture what the future holds without your warm presence in it. Can you?

I still want to remember how your swift and firm hand seized mine.Sometimes, it all seems to be exhaustingly  difficult to remember these. I think time no longer needs time and we may write our own story. Don’t you?

I don’t know how overwhelming or deprived of importance this must feel to you now. Will you tell me?

20 seconds to … myself

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just begins
to live that day.

~  Emily Dickinson

‘So, you are a writer?’

[…]

‘Uhmm… I believe I am.’

Those twenty seconds that followed the question had thrown me in a sudden ambiguity continuum and before I could come up with an answer, I knew I had to be honest to myself. I found myself released from that vortex of self-contradiction and desire to find the truth for myself only when the next Christmas tune broke the silence. In the uni coffee shop, while friendly chatting over a nice cup of Starbucks’ latest caffeinated drink conquest. It took me a while to come up with an honest answer because somehow, my friend’s innocent question had succeeded to unleash a tacit torment.

For the first time, someone other than myself acknowledged my calling. I couldn’t help but wonder if there is something about it that just shouts out to everyone ‘hey, I am a writer’ or if some of us posses an extra ability to read people.

It was my chance to be honest to myself and publicly acknowledge who I am.

Of course, the highest story of all is yet to be accomplished because I can feel it grow. Slowly, step by step and drop by drop it builds its way out. Very soon it will be complete, but then will I gather the courage to share with the world? I always end up going back to the great names which went down in writing history and while I do not have any unrealistic expectations of ever becoming one of them, I desire a flicker of their courage. After all, we are being judged every single day of our life, most of time not even knowingly. Yet, we find the strength to carry on, because we are not alone and we have a story to tell.  And not only once, but always, the greatest books ever written were the mere product of a lifetime translated into hope and purpose. Because no matter how harsh this reality is, if we are able to pass on our story we are vainquers. And perhaps, one day, someone’s hero.

2015

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fear Factor.”

Of never getting my story across.

My only fear is that it will always remain unfinished.

The rushy words inside my head are now throbbing inside my stomach and they pinch my feet. They’re not just Saussurean representation of sounds and images, they’ve already connected and formed a tiny terracotta army. Sometimes, I can hear them. Their slow march grows inside my ears before I go to sleep and sometimes even when I am dreaming.   When I awake, I try to grab them by their tail and ‘pull the story back trough me’. For the past months it managed to get away from me. Hiding behind everyday’s tumult I have rapidly created the perfect comfort zone with sharp edges. Sometimes, I would hit myself against them and the sweet pain of writing again emerges…for a while. But there are times when I bleed, continuously and I do not die, instead, I feel free like floating on top of the world. Vertige, you might say? Perhaps. Yet, I am enjoying it.

This is my promise to myself: from now on, not a day shall pass without continuing my story. It is my destiny, or less fatalist, it is who I am. And I owe it not only to myself but to the One who has put this in me.

We are all here for a purpose. The others are awaiting to see our light. Sit under the tree of inspiration and make room for your story to flow. Freely.

Make this year the best story of your life!