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I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.

My baby brother & me

You know how they say you can tell what you aspire to most in yourself be determining the qualities that you admire most in others? I've concluded the things I aspire to most are strength, loyalty and compassion. I realize that these three will inevitably overlap in some regards, but I believe them to be sufficiently distinct to list them out as separate ideals. I've learned from my mother and my aunts the importance of being strong for your family, for your men. The men in my family are weak; they fail at laundry, they fail at ambition, they fail at leadership. It is up to the women in my family to lead and to protect. It has always been that way. I have learned from my brother and his friends the importance of loyalty. Betrayal ultimately breeds isolation, and life is joyless when lived alone.

Finally, there is compassion. I'm not sure from whom I picked up on the importance of compassion. It is not an attribute that is particularly encouraged in my family. Perhaps it is based upon a collection of experiences, wherein I was treated with unexpected kindness or generosity. Perhaps it is merely a projection of my own frailty, a need to feel that the universe will extend forgiveness for my failures, because I will surely fall to be strong and loyal when I am called upon to be both. Regardless, though listed last, I think compassion is the most important of the three qualities to which I aspire, because it is the most difficult. I sit here, claiming my heart aches for this or that, but I refuse to do anything about it. Compassion entails discomfort and pain, and I abhor both to such an embarrassing degree, I fear I will always be deficient in this regard. 

She's a prose painter, some of them will like her words, some of them will love her words. Some of them will not stand her words, but then again she's not here to please the faceless maddening crow. To them who truly know her, she's like a European sensibility mixed with the sensual abandon of a woman lost in a world of Pablo Nerudian sensibility. 
She's the one who likes standing on a moving bus or going into a library and using her outdoor voices. When she go over to the dark side she always bring cookies and tea. Sometimes when she's really wild and crazy, she'll even bite into a piece of fruit without giving it a good rinse first.
Does it taste sweeter? You bet your sweet ass it does. She believes one of the most courageous acts you can do it think out loud. She does it often. Sometimes she does it here. With her own words.

To her, words are sacred as they are profane. Each word is a small story, a thicket of meaning. Words are such sacred objects to her. With words she explore all subject that cross her strange and dark mind from herself to madness, hope, memories, childhood, regret, courage, fear, nature, love, sex, reading, writing, life or what drifts through her cerebral cortex on any random morning or afternoon.
Mostly with cookies and a cup of tea. 

His  heart is made of glass. Whether it looks half empty or half full. It all takes up the same amount of volume. Sometimes he pours or drink too liberally. He's quickly inebriated, hopelessly intoxicated.
He gets excited, when in his drunken wisdom, thinks he knows what it was. But then, clumsily trips over some careless words that were left on the doorstep. He drops the glass and it shatters, leaving wet stains which could be confused for tears.
It's alright because similar to him, it's part of n interchangeable set. We can always buy more at the shop, if the store runs out, they can always order more from the factory. They build them on site, in their workshop.

We'll always have the tendency to want the upper hand; it makes us feel bigger. Naturally, power is desirable, because usually it is used to convince ourselves of our self worth. And it works. But it is simply a temporary solution - sucking on other people's strength to build our own is not a stable source of confidence. We fool ourselves into believing that it means we are better, but the truth is it only proves how weak we really are. Dominating is a way for the feeble to build a wall. When we try to climb on a pedestal above others, you'll realize, we rarely share with them who we really are. Out of fear, the "stronger" one never gives a piece of themselves. At the same time, we don't see the other as who they are either because how could we? When peering down from so high up, how could anyone possibly see clearly?

Looking someone eye to eye take a lot more effort. And time. Trying to relate not really means understanding someone else; it also means sharing who you are. This kind of give and take - not simply taking, is a measure of true inner strength. It show that we are comfortable with who we are; or at least, ourselves. Dominating makes us feel bigger, but relating is what truly makes someone a bigger, and stronger person.

There was a time she couldn't wait to show me everything about her life. I'll never forget the day she took me to the attic and dragged out box after box of her childhood memories; her proudest achievements from school, drawings and finger paintings, even poems she wrote for grandma. I thought to myself, what a gift it was to experience the view beyond the door of her soul. And as we dug through the boxes and found a baby picture of me with the innocent smile, sat on her lap, I felt her moving farther and farther from me. She became deathly quite and I could see with every item I pulled out, her gaze became more focused on the door. As the sun began to set, the attic became cold, too cold. I looked at her, wondering if she would be the first to stand, but she didn't. She sat stoic, as if to say, leave me, let me freeze. And so I did.

It makes me feel powerful, like I have the capacity to affect people. Have you ever said or done something just to bring someone down? Just so you could watch their face crumple, or better yet, they try to tough it out with a forced laugh or a glare that barely disguises their drooping eyes. You find their weakness and aim at the core of it. Sometimes it's so easy that even you are embarrassed for them. But if they tries to cover their pain, at least you could go along with it and pretend not to notice.
The worst is when they don't even make an effort to fake a smile, or when they do, but fail terribly. When the hurt is etched into every movement of their body, when the little glimmer in the center of once sparkling eyes transform into a trickle down their cheek. When every muscle sags in defeat. Such a trail vulnerable form discomforts me because I do not wish to witness anyone in that state. But yet, sometimes I find it quite amusing, not just because I know I made them that way, but simply because I find the heady, shame infused tears of those vanquished fatuity to be quite tasty. 

People stripped of all their guards, in the raw form, is a frightening image, like seeing them in their flesh gnawed to the bone. The chilling sight catches you off guard, and you have the impulse to look away as if it's too private for you to see. But like an overheard secret, the allure of such a tentative and forbidden exchange draws you in. And in the end, I feel victorious because I was capable of tearing someone down and shredding away the layers.
I remain the victor because I had the ability to pierce through their emotions and puncture a wound, even if it was just for one moment. Even if it doesn't leave a scar.

Do you ever sit back and think about some things you’ve done in the past and feel a throbbing pain within you because you feel as though the person who did all those wasn’t you at all? Like whenever you’re reminded about any of them, you just mutter under your breath an instant “Shite.” or “Goddamn it.”? And then all of the sudden, you just find yourself smiling because as much as you want to reproach yourself for having done a series of both accidental and deliberate mistakes, you just couldn’t anymore? So what you do is smile. You smile because somehow, those episodes of faultiness brought you whatever you have now. And even though you don’t like the state you’re currently in and the surrounding and environment you have, you smile, still. Because even though you hate it, and even though you don’t want to admit it, you know deep down that it’s relatively fun to have bits of memories to look back into so you can occasionally laugh or get mad at yourself and actually feel connected to who you really are. You don’t know it, we don’t know it— because we try to deny and ignore it on a consistent basis— but the connection that links or the bond that ties us to ourselves is one of the most substantial things in our existence.

I’ve learned (the hard way) that making life choices is not rocket science. a thing is either right for you or wrong for you (you inherently know the difference). pick the thing that’s right for you. works every time. 

She was the most dangerous kind of liar. The type that releases sweet words to melt on your tongue;
it's fizzles into a sulphuric acid the moments it's ingested. What a coward. Villains seem to meet their downfall during long spiels but at least they had the guts to be honest.
She silently fed you the kind of termites that ate at your flesh because she was bored, but she didn't even enjoy the way they slowly destroyed. She just stared blankly. He remember the first time seeing a hint of emotion. It was the excitement that flashed in her eyes when he said no. It ignited some sort of fire in her; a challenge. He'd walk as far as he could but she'd always make her way to find him and stand close enough to breath down his neck. And he tried to find help and tried to stand in public places but it was like nobody wanted to get involved if it wasn't their business. And have you ever noticed. Only when it's a matter of opinion does anyone have the ability to suddenly speak up. No one wants to do anything when there's action involved. Things are much easier in theory.

The first requires a different understanding of many things—a place to stand, a way to see, and the abililty to comprehend events that happened in a billionth of a billionth of a second, but my first answer would be that I would like to have been there at the crack of creation. There was nothing… then… there was. What must that have been like?

I realize that is perhaps not what you had in mind, but there is another very special moment that I would have liked to have been present for. This would require the voice of a narrator because I’m sure the event itself would not have been noteworthy to an observer. I can’t imagine how it happened—maybe it was a growing feeling that had been stirring for thousands of years, maybe it came in a rush, but there still must have been a moment—maybe she looked up from a campfire and gazed into the stars, maybe he stopped while chipping flakes of a stone and looked at his hand… or maybe a child stopped in the seafoam and drew in the wet sand. Regardless, there must have been a moment, an instant, when the first human (or perhaps it was something not-yet-human) looked at the world with self-awareness thought something like “I am”—and everything else followed from that moment. There must have been that point in time when we became self-aware and conscious, and there is no more important event in the story of what we are.

There is one more ... kind of like the first ... I would very much like to be at the end, when the last star blinks out and everything is finished. I know events like that far exceed our comprehension, but we can still dare to dream, right? What else are we, if not a race of dreamers?

Write something for me my lunatic poet. Be it a song or just a short sticky note. Write something to make me smile or cry or laugh. Put pen to paper and make me feel something. Scribble in a moleskin read some Dickens and Blake. Listen to Yesterday’s pupil and write to me about how they inspired you to write some more. Or if you prefer write your own music and let that inspire me. I just want you to be the closet poet and the novelist I had always wanted.

Milano - Italy * Spring 2012

His writing use to be filled with so much passion and ferocity. Every sentence like a sharp knife cutting through the imagination; opening wounds of wonder. It use to stir up emotions like bubbling potions in minds as deep and dark as the blackest cauldrons. But those vessels are empty now, only single words drip-drip to the bottom like drops waiting to be part of something magical.


Good night my lunatic poet ❤ 

Writing good poetry is like having sex with a blindfold and ear plugs. Bereft of those things that would typically provide you with the data necessary to determine wether things are going well, you are required, at the end of the day to rely on your instincts.Trusting one partner is nothing more frustrating than when, despite all your efforts and the risks you've undertaken, you don't get off.

Frédéric François Chopin

There is only one real way to listen Chopin: earphones, the best ones money can buy, with the volume jacked the shit up. Sometimes when the breeze trickles in and the harmonics are buzzing, I swear to god I can taste his spit. Yea, I know, I have no idea what his spit tasted like, but I imagine it tasted a bit like old booze, cheese and chocolate. I would have liked to make out with Chopin. Not like "full-on almost-have-sex-with-him" make out, but like nibble on his lips, have his laughter curl up into my neck like the smell of old parchment. Or perhaps I would have fucked him. There's something instinctive about wrapping one's leg around something so tragically singular, like the native belief that one can inherit the wisdom/power/virility  of one's enemies by eating their vital organs. My thighs shaken from their hunger, my vagina  drools at the anticipation. There was something lost when he died. Not that kind of loss that you regret with an "oh shit, I liked that shoes," not even the kind of loss over which you cry and cry and cry for 10 years and refuse to leave your house. Nope, it was like losing one memories, so that you are cheated out of even nostalgia, the ethereal  residue of vibrato and tears that reminds us we are perfectly frail, exquisitely susceptible; that we are never alone.