Tag Archives: writing

Not just a slice

Standard

And I find myself in here again, with written words as my comrades.

How bitter and how sweet life proves itself to be. The new and old ones that mean a lot in my life… Why aren’t they enough? Why is it never enough? Why am I never enough?

I cannot settle! My best wish came true in part, there’s a lemon pie, but you can only have the thinnest slice. I look forward, trying to move on.

At times I feel I get exactly what I want… with an if, or a but, or a loss. Is it my destiny, to feel as deep as I feel to write lonely bittersweet paragraphed sonnets for people or myself to read?

A lonely fate I do not seem to be able to scape. As always, dreaming for someone, preparing for no one. I have so much to give, stored, waiting for someone who has got something similar to give me back.

It is warm and loyal, here inside. Trust me, hear me, faith. Not just someone, the one. Not just a slice, the whole pie.

I ran out of words

Standard

Lately, it’s been harder for me to write a couple of paragraphs for my blog. I enter lifeandwonderland in the username space, followed by the password in the space below, and then I press the Enter key… I read posts (that takes a while), and later I go to the dashboard (you, wordpress bloggers, know what I’m talking about). Being there, I stare at the tiny statistics bars for a second, and then, with my fingers properly positioned for a fluid typing experience, I intend to write… and it all stays in intention.

I ran out of words; they are all staying inside me again, dangerously building up… It becomes a complicated quest when you run out of words.

Sonnets went away with my struggle for a wider perspective, along with the absence of phantoms that haunt me on the places where the walls of the house I grew up in get together forming a corner. And perspective folds itself back, forming a lemniscate, with only one evident side to the pen.

Aware of the fact that I might sound like a person with a measurable level of lack of sanity, I say: What a case of “that isn’t chocolate flavored… it is coffee savored”! I do not like the taste of coffee.

Going back to the post… I recall a thought of mine: When something is very important, it feels eternal, building the sin of qualifying itself with forever. The corollary, which one is it?

Sewing machine

Standard

I want a sewing machine. Thus, for materializing dreams of fabric and building them the way I want them to be. To avoid looking at the sky, wishing upon a star. To make things real or make it seem like they are.

Marvelous it is, to learn the art of creating something that can be worn with pride, appreciated and even paid for… like a love received with reciprocal feeling and eternal tear-surpassing smiles. You can even fix what appears to be a little torn… like broken hearts revive at certain new dawns.

There is no room for coward excuses, or misleading signals, when things as this lay in front of you: rolled wool sheets, paper patterns, scissors and thread.

Peace may come between your mind and your heart while you sew. Hands busy, imagination and intellect working shoulder to shoulder. A verse chanted many winters ago, that has been traveling the world, sleeping on park benches and drinking rain drops, collapses completely at the sound of the needle moving up and down.

Being my wish more vain than the way I portrayed it, I must add a finishing line: Everything is valid in love and… when you write.