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WWWBT 13 or Blue butterflies at CF!

I am drinking my morning coffee in a nice, porcelain mug I paid 17 pounds for at Harrods. It’s full of cows. The mug. Bred cows – Jersey and Beltet Galloway are on the inside, and I have another 6 other breeds on the outside. Together with some flowers, a cream skimmer, a three legged stool, a milk pail, and a milk churn. Quite a mug I have here. Someone who is into cows and dairy stuff might think.
Oh, and I’m smoking again. Well…. Does puffing a cherry small cigar once in a while count as smoking? Probably yes, and I don’t want to live in denial anymore. So, here it is, I’m smoking again, I’ve restarted my trainings with Circuit Factory and we agreed, Darren and I, not to mention the Camus night ever again. Because, apparently, nothing happened. We just had some nice dinner, he fixed my router password, I drove him crazy reading him Camus in French, and that was it!
We’re going to the beach tomorrow, like good, old friends who are sharing everything, except for a bed. And after beach, Circuit Factory. It’s going to be a very inspirational start of a weekend!

I get in Springs at 9:30; I know around 10 there will be no more parking places. I spend a few minutes in the car, listening to some music, twitter-ing, and intentionally not thinking of the next hour. And I’m so concentrated on the screen of my iPhone I literally jump in my seat when someone taps on the window of my Jeep. I turn my head to the left and I swear, the time freezes. It’s like in those effects on TV, when everything and everyone remains stuck in their position, either in the air, or with their hands raised up, or with a frozen tear on their cheek…. It’s only me, the viewer, the one able to move, to touch, to smell, to pretend is breathing. The CF guy stays in front of the passenger seat door, with a tired smile on his face. I open the door, get down and simply hug him. It’s a friendly hug, an expert in hugging would say. Nothing concupiscent, nothing to betray my elevated heart rate and an abnormal desire to lift his shirt and… No, it was only a friendly hug, we catch up, I haven’t seen in more than ten months, how’ve you been, nice tan, oh, you put on some weight, *uck off, no, I keep this to myself, I’m a lady, and swearing in public in Dubai can be quite tricky.
We work together in the same station, it’s good to feel him on my left. Tina, one of the trainers, I bet she had a bad night and decided to kill us today. I don’t stop, though, it’s good to train with him again, here comes another burbee, and another, blow that damn whistle, woman!!!!
After the final whistle, I collapse on a black mat, trying to catch my breath, my neurons, my words… He’s talking to me…
‘What are you doing tonight?’
Well, I’m thinking, tonight I will undress you, count all your moles, divide the skin on your back into independent territories, with no capitals, no kings and no constitutions, free of any possible oppression, where only blue butterflies are entitled to have an opinion.
‘Su is having a party. Come, it’s gonna be fun!’
I don’t do parties, I want to tell him. I am the queen of solitude, controversial music and liquors with no points of view whatsoever.
‘Sure, I’ll be there!’

50 GREAT SHORT STORIES

Or climbing the Everest of reading

You like reading, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. So, we’ve established that! And, during your amazing journeys as readers, you have come across all kinds of books. The ones you can’t just put down. All Murakami novels for me. I’m a little bit masochistic, I have to admit, I ordered my copy of COLOURLESS TSUKURU TAZAKI AND HIS YEARS OF PILGREMAGE via Amazon, and I will receive it sometime in September. While Kinokuniya is filled with hundreds of copies. That I touched, and soothed with the top of my fingers, oh, guilty pleasures… But I’ll wait for my copy, like waiting for a much missed lover, making the final encounter even more exciting and… I bet some of you know what I’m talking about.

Then there are the books you have to read. Sometimes, in one’s lifetime. Like Joyce’s ULYSSES for me. Which I think I started at least four or five times. But I promise you, I’m going to read it! Sometimes. In this lifetime.

Then there are those books that, no matter what, you simply have to part from after only a few pages. You have to. You know you can use the time you would have wasted with them on other books. Like on one of those you can’t simply put down.

And then there are books like this 50 GREAT SHORT STORIES. On which I wrote, when I bought it, ‘still entertaining the idea of a short story collection of my own’. I like to write on books. When I bought them, where I bought them, what I’m expecting from them. This one I got from a book shop in the Frankfurt airport, on the 5th of July, 2013. I can’t remember, though, what I was doing there. But that’s fine, because this aspect is totally irrelevant to my story.

It’s a big book, almost 600 pages. I’m not such a big fan of big books. Reading them, trying to finish them, I mean, sometimes feels like a long run. Or climbing the Everest. To the base camp. It’s on my bucket list. Like ULYSSES. Shall I detail more? I love it, and I’ll finish it, but it’s tiresome. Somehow.

It’s a beautiful collection! Maupassant, Huxley, Joyce, Hemingway… Huxley’s GIOCONDA SMILE was like a truffle. Do you like truffles? I love them! The story goes smoothly, like a walk in a warm, summer rain. Delicious, never-ending pleasure, undecided skies. Is it how the reading feels, or how I feel Mr. Hutton? Huxley is a master in just dropping a hint of colour, and still managing a perfect profile for his characters, it’s like he’s not the painter, still you can see the portrait in front of your eyes, with every little annoying, still perfect and unforgettable detail… He’s the perfect lover, the sophisticated flirter, the bored husband – personally, I never understood why he married Doris, but, alas, why questioning Huxley? I remember I loved POINT COUNTER POINT so much!

I found another analogy! I love analogies, in case you haven’t concluded it yourselves. And it’s not another analogy, is the first one I thought of while reading the collection. A long corridor. With a lot of doors, both on the right, and on the left. Those of you who saw ROSE RED can picture it better. I’m walking this corridor I cannot see the end of, and this is a little bit scary, so you can maybe understand better my discomfort while reading this book, and I open the door on the right. It’s THE GARDEN PARTY (http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/GardPart.shtml). So beautiful, I stay there, with the door ajar, and I can smell the flowers, and the cookies, and it’s a nice feeling. Except for the death of the poor young man, whose eyes were blind under the closed eyelids.

The next door on the left leads me to Pushkin’s Russia. His short story THE SHOT (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXNlxmA6P5o) is so colourful, it reminds me of a nice book that delighted my childhood, written by another Russian, not as famous as Pushkin, Pyotr Yershov. The volume with THE LITTLE HUMPBACKED HORSE (http://lib.ru/LITRA/ERSHOW/horse.txt_with-big-pictures.html) was full of wonderful drawings, and here I am, digressing… Have you ever imagined, while reading a book, or a short story of a famous writer, have you pictured him at his desk, writing those adventures, bringing those characters to life? Have you? Can you picture Pushkin at his desk, painting those Slavic letters, almost alive under the flickering of the candle light? There’s a blizzard outside, lot of snow and… (this might be the result of too much sun in the Desert…)

I still have 24 stories to read. And I have to admit I opened doors and I closed them shortly after. Maybe I didn’t like the smell, or the light (meaning there were too many words, a weird order, a sensible arrangement of the phrase that I didn’t enjoy. I cannot say for sure.) I preferred to close the door, and opened another one. So, I can’t say for sure that I’ll enjoy all the 24 ones that I still have to open.

Still. The short stories in this volume are real works of art. They are so vivid, and so wonderful, and so full of spectacular adventures that you would really don’t want them to end. So, maybe that endless corridor is not scary and worrying after all. It is more like Forest Gump’s box of chocolate. You will never know what you’re going to get.

 

WWWBT 12 Camus, Mozart and Popcorn

Cyclothymia – mood disorder characterized by alternating episodes of depression and elation in a form less severe than that of bipolar disorder.(Merriam-Webster)

 

Who eats popcorn at the opera? Really now! It’s Mozart, for crying out loud! But you know me, I’m that dog that barks but doesn’t bite, I didn’t say anything. And, luckily for my poor nerves, whoever was so unbelievably ignorant to crunch popcorn during COSI FAN TUTTE, stopped pretty soon after the show had started. No, it wasn’t my power of concentration, as I kidded myself for a second, I’m far from this performance, still cannot believe I had sex with Darren on Friday evening. And, obviously, I can’t stop thinking about it! Not to mention that all started so innocently!

Thursday was an awful day in the office. Long and boring conference calls, the perspective of the weekend just around the corner… Not easy, trust me!

His call was unexpected and welcome, I hadn’t seen him in a long time. He knew Luca was gone, still he had never come to see how I was. Generally speaking. He suggested breakfast the next morning, at Paul’s. He offered to come and pick me up. I said yes.

I wasn’t necessarily elated, but for sure I wasn’t depressed anymore. Or, at least, I managed to smile and have a peaceful conversation about job, cars, world cup, more work – Darren likes to talk about work, and I like to listen to him talking about work.

He looks a little tired, and it’s not that I’ve almost forgotten how the wrinkle on the corner of his left eye looked like. It’s still there, still the same length. Have I missed him? Where is this coming from?

We part after a few hours. He drops me home, I touch his hand resting on the gear stick, in the car, nothing unusual, I had done it before, it’s just a thing I do with him sometimes, touching him, nothing concupiscent.

‘Oh, you know, I need to change the password to my router.’

‘Oh, no, not again!’

‘Please, please, please…’

He agrees to pass by in the evening.

And, if I remember correctly, last time I was so anxious, excited and nervous was in the second grade, when I was in love with Luke Skywalker and I was getting ready to go and see EMPIRE STRIKES BACK.

 

(…)

 

‘Listen to this!’

We sit on the high chairs, to the bar in the kitchen, drinking some wine and talking about Camus. There was a passage I wanted to read to him from LA CHUTE.

Le véritable amour est exceptionnel, deux ou trois fois par siècle à peu près. Le reste du temps, il y a la vanité ou l’ennui.’

He keeps sipping his wine and I’m trying to catch his eyes. No response. He didn’t get it, as simple as that. And it makes a lot of sense. If he had spoken to me in Japanese, which would be a familiar language for him, though I know it isn’t, but me and Japanese language these days, you know, we have something, so, if he had, he probably wouldn’t care too much if I got it or not. For him, Japanese would be a cognoscible and familiar language, and for me not. So I would have continued to sip my wine and have a blank look on my face. Like when you’re trying to think of nothing. Some says it’s a bless. Thinking of nothing. Others… Oh, let me translate him Camus’s idea on love.

‘Vanity? Boredom? Two or three times per century? I don’t know.’

For sure it’s hard to believe. Was I in love with Luca? Or the CF guy? Right, I wonder how the CF guy is! I haven’t heard anything about him in a long time.
I don’t get to say anything anymore, Darren is in front of me, puts his hands on my face and kisses me. Out of the blue. It must be boredom!

The next day, long time after he’s gone, my hands still smell of him. I bury my face in my hands and I inhale his smell until I feel it reaches my stomach. No wing flickering. What happened to my butterflies? Depression must have killed them. Is there a way to resuscitate them? Some CPR for the butterflies in the stomach? Anyone? No? Hm…

Did we really? Darren and I? Really? And his chest is pressing mine and he breathes quickly and he smells of Boss Night. My hands smell of Boss Night.

The phone rings. It’s Lara. She wants to go out for a beer. Sure. I need to get rid of the smell of Boss Night from my hands. Replace it with butter popcorn smell maybe. I chuckle and go for a shower. Best decision today!

WWWBT 11 – Wake up, Clara!

Depression is the flaw of love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and the depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one’s self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection. It is the aloneness within us made manifest, and it destroys not only connection to others but also the ability to be peacefully alone with oneself. Love, though is not prophylactic against depression, is what cushions the mind and protects it from itself. (Andrew Solomon)

 

Some time ago, I bought a white board and two markers. To write myself encouraging phrases from Steve Jobs and the others, and… You see where I’m going? No? Too bad, because I don’t feel like giving too many explanations today. Still, you know what’s on my board these days? A question mark! Like this: ? What am I asking? Whom am I asking? Why am I asking? It there anything to be asked at all? Does anybody have the answer? And no, it cannot be 42!

(…)

Today I died a little. It’s nothing new for me, it just happened too sudden, I had no warnings and for a moment, the thought of dying for more than a little was present again. Wearing a red dress and smelling of Channel’s Allure, it strutted around, intimidating any other thought that had not succumbed to its suffocating scent.

I had an incredibly stressful day in the office, one of those days when you want to go to your manager and ask for a raise for having to deal with idiots. Some people are either playing stupid, or they are plain stupid, I don’t know what’s worse.

And I’m not sure it was the frustration of their stupidity, or my lack of compassion and understanding, but I felt I needed to leave the office. Come home, go up to the gym and die on the treadmill. You see, there are also good ways to die. Metaphorically speaking, don’t start being melodramatic here!

(…)

Every time I enter my apartment, I expect to see him in his armchair. With his glass of scotch, reading or listening to Placebo. I haven’t listened to Placebo since he left. Today, I’m running up that hill… (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KEEXyRL0qE). And I don’t know if it was the music, the music, his not being here, the music, but I started feeling it growing. Like a cocoon, like a cell multiplying, like a living organism growing inside of me, taking over… The breathing stopped. Time stopped. I wasn’t peacefully alone with myself anymore.

It’s so easy to give up sometimes.

Luca, where are you?

The voices… All talking in the same time. Can’t stop them. Make them stop!

(…)

They stopped. Somehow. Maybe it was the sleep that stopped them. Whatever it was, thank you! It’s quiet again.

And then I see the board. It says, Wake up, Clara! Nobody can save you!

And in the low, right corner, with very small letters, it says But you.

THE ADVENTURE TO THE TOP

(or the Adventure of the Little Boy and the Young Lady in the Elevator)

 

The little boy enters the elevator alone.

His curly, black hair is perfectly framing his little, round face, and only his little black eyes seem to want to say something. But they keep quiet. In frustration.

He’s looking at the young lady in the elevator, and, his mouth agape, as if wanting to utter the unthinkable, he pushes the last button. The young lady is looking at him, wondering what his story is. Does he have a story? He must have a story, anyone entering the elevator and pushing the last button must have a story! And then, why is he riding the elevator alone? Why has he pushed the last button, the one no one has pushed in a long time?…

She stays in her corner, her arms crossed at her chest, flipping an imaginary coin whether she should talk to the little boy or not.

‘If it’s tail, I’ll tell you my story’, says the little boy, as if reading her mind, as if literally seeing that coin flipping in the mind of the young lady.

‘It’s tail’, lies the young lady.

‘Oh’, sighs the little boy. He sits on the floor, against the wall on the right of the door and seems to be ready to start telling his story.

‘It’s a story about frustration, you know?’, he says.

‘I thought you were supposed to leave your frustration outside the elevator. Wasn’t this the rule?’

He is silent for a moment.

‘Yeah, but I want to take it to the Top! And leave it there, so that no one can find it! No one should be frustrated. It’s a very frustrating feeling.’

She smiles a little, but then she gets back to being serious and impenetrable, like a lady. Besides, there should be no exchange of emotions in the elevator. It said so on the sign above the mirror.

‘Will you come with me to the Top?’

The little boys looks up to her, with a big “please” in his eyes, and she knows she is going with him to the Top. She knew it even before she had entered the elevator. She knew it ever since she had woken up that morning. It might have been the dream. Who knows? Who cares? She’s here now, with him, they’re going to the Top, to get rid of the frustration, and she decides this is going to be the adventure of her life! The biggest one! The one she won’t get to tell to her grandchildren.

‘We have a long way to go, why don’t you start telling me your story? It was a tail, after all.’

She feels like sitting on the floor too, but she is a lady, it would be inappropriate. She just changes her weight from the left foot to the right.

‘Do you want a candy?’, she asks him with a yellow voice. The yellow voice was the emotionless one when offering a candy. She would stick to the rules. It was for the best.

‘No, thanks, I have bad teeth’, he lies. Candies would always remind him of his father. He would give him candies when he wanted him to leave him alone.

‘So? The story?’

‘Well, there’s not much to tell, you know? I’m only five. I’m going to the Top. That’s pretty much it.’

‘Where did you get that frustration from?’

‘If you didn’t come with me to the Top, I’d think you are a cop. My father was a cop. He never had time for me. He used to give me candies.’

He bends his head, and she could feel his sadness. Not his frustration, though. She knows he has it with him, but it’s not palpable, as if it died when he got it in the elevator.

‘You know? We can always stop here. Or here. No need to go to the Top.’

He seems to be thinking of something, he can’t hear her. And she knows he will never tell her. She also knows that he’s decided to go to the Top. She knows there’s nothing for him to go back to. If someone wants to go to the Top after only five years… What could she do? What anyone could do? She is only happy she’s there for him.

It’s a long way to the Top!

WWBT10 – why amoebae don’t go to CF and what Mercedes and cheese have in common

My living room is warmed up by a beautiful carpet – it’s white, with a huge red flower spreading its petals towards all four corners. It’s warm and alive, because if you’re patient, sometimes, you can feel the red flower sighing.
I rolled the carpet and put it in a corner, it needs to be cleaned, and now my living room seems distant, cold, the French window gets reflected in the shiny tiles of the floor, and it’s as if I can open that reflected French window and walk down in an alternative reality, where there has never been Luca and his leaving me.
Yesterday I managed to go back to CF. After almost more than three months. Of course today I can barely flex my legs or sit down. And it was scary. My going back. I can see myself paralyzed in a corner, waiting for the class to start, barely breathing, prepared for that moment when my heart, tired of all the madness, would give up and stop. And yes, I was there, and I met old friends, and we hugged, and I was happy to see them, but I’m not sure I’ll be going back, though. I mean not as much as I used to go, regularly. I feel tired, as if my body is taking some kind of revenge, making me lie motionless in my/his leather armchair for hours. As if I’m trying to melt in the black leather, disintegrate into millions of cells, looking for his epithelial that must have remained prisoners there, and absorb them, like an amoeba… This amoeba can’t find that passion that used to wake me up at 5 a.m. Not anymore. It’s a void which has become my routine, a lack of vitality which seems to govern my every day counting of hours.
‘Ok, this amoeba will get dressed in a minute and go out! Now!’
Rona looks over my shoulders and sniffs.
‘Let’s go for that breakfast! It’s getting late!’
She’s on a crusade to get me out of my low moods, and most of the time I would crawl in a corner, in a fetus position, and close my eyes and phase her out until she would give up and leave me alone.
But this weekend I don’t want to be an amoeba anymore.
We drive downtown and have a French breakfast on a terrace of a nice restaurant, by the lake. There’s so much light I could use two pairs of sunglasses.
We chitchat for a while, but then she gets a phone call and I get to look at the other people on the terrace. It’s a healthy habit, if you ask me. The young blond woman carefully picking up crumbs from the white table cloth, the annoying curly toddler who keeps kicking the table with his feet till the water in the glass spills and spatters on his father’s nice, Saturday suit. The French guy, luminous and full of life, reading Camus and keeping his latte cup in his left hand, with his little finger pointing up, like a precious primadonna. I had heard him ordering his ‘omelette’, that’s how I knew he was French.
This is a very nice place, and it feels literally far away from the city, though it’s not, as if the towers, and the traffic, and the noise, and the dust had vanished, and there’s nothing else but the bright lake, the blue sky, the French guy and his ‘omelette’, my cheese and Rona’s telephone conversation.
‘So, how’s your cheese?’
It seems she has ended her phone call. Her words reach me in slow motion, as if travelling through a high density liquid, like honey. Would they taste sweet to my ears if so? Is cheese a sweet word? I wonder what my left ear thinks. The right one is a little impaired, so it cannot be a reliable witness.
I don’t utter anything; I just cut another small piece with my fork, and put it in my mouth. It tastes a little sour, but it has an interesting consistency, almost aristocratic. Now, that’s an interesting thought.
‘Do you remember how I always say that Mercedes have that aristocratic…. attitude?’
Of course I can understand her bewilderment; she looks at me as if I’m eating a Mercedes.
‘That’s how this cheese tastes like. I mean, I don’t know how an aristocratic taste should taste like, it’s just a feeling.’
She finally swallows her bite, thank God she hasn’t choked, I saw the Heimlich maneuver only in the movies. On the other hand, it would have been a very pertinent reason to address a few words to the French guy, wouldn’t it? Asking for help… Shall I bewilder her one more time? I’m like the thunder here, cannot be as spontaneous and witty two times in a row.

The Sumida

Originally posted on Icebox:

River, river, river (lifelong familiarity with a language lures us into hearing onomatopoeia). We look out on the Sumida River where it goes past the southern end of Tokyo’s Taito ward, and are just a couple of hundred meters upstream from the confluence with the Kanda (which I once lived alongside in Nakano ward).

A river—or any body of water for that matter—is a view that you can wholly rely on to be different every day. The color, texture, play of light on, speed of flow, traffic on, even the apparent width of a river change like the weather, like the mood of a creature you’ve been staring at for too long. In other words, a river is one of the most iron-bound promises against boredom, a lifetime guarantee of (at least) subtle surprises.

Windless
the grasses
bend forward

In anticipation
the gulls bob and wheel
at the mouth of…

View original 14 more words

ALICE AND THE FRESH RAIN

I miss the smell of fresh rain

Which would blue your eyes and soften your lips.

I miss the words you used to whisper

And would pour into my ears like crazy drops of rain which forgot how to fly.

I miss the silence in between the smiles

Which would light up the days and turn nights into a riddle for the Hatter.

I miss being Alice

When chasing white rabbits was like a brunch with soft roses turning into music.

WWWBT 9 – learning to breathe again or let’s talk about healthy infatuations

Tchaikovsky – piano concerto no.1. The Tomcat is as puzzled as anyone who would be so unfortunate to enter my place at this time at night.

Tomcat climbs the armchair, finds a comfy place in my lap, leans his head to my right arm and put his left paw on my left hand, all restless from typing at the computer. He doesn’t seem to mind the restlessness. Just wants to be sure he’s the master, he controls the hand!

iConcerts now. Jimmy Hendrix, 1970, at Isle of Wight Festival, last live performance. Never been a proper fan, but he’s one of the best guitarists, so I enjoy his part after Tchaikovsky like a spread of peanut butter on a hamburger. No, I’m not being fair, it’s an interesting combination, more like the one Yoshiki used in X Japan’s concerts. Yes, I’m the Woman with a bloody Tomcat, and, at 4o, I’ve developed the craziest infatuation for this guy, as if I were 14! Everything is revolving around Yoshiki (spelled Yosh’ki, it’s important!) these days, his band, X Japan, and Hide, his dead guitarist. You don’t know who X Japan is? Google it, people, I don’t have time for this, I have to finish my laundry.

It’s been I don’t know how many months, or weeks, or even seconds since he left. Who cares anymore? I’ve learnt to breathe again so… We’re fine. Me, and the Tomcat, and… Me, I’m fine. As Lara would say ‘you and your other personalities will have to move your butts out of that bed and go to work! They’ll fire you! All of you!’ As if I didn’t know it!

Ok, I’ll admit it, I died a little. I know, it sounds like a drama queen, but I am a drama queen. And you know it, so let’s move on!

When my first boyfriend left me, one million years ago, I used to think he had died. I could cope better with his being dead, than his being with another woman. I bet lots of women and girls do the same. No? Oh… I was under the impression I wasn’t the only one with exaggerate emotional problems.

- You’re not, but you know something? ….

And she doesn’t finish her phrase, she’s just handing me a beer and sits on the floor in front of my writing table.

Lara looks tired, I know she has some problems in the office and she’s kind enough not to talk about them tonight. It’s my first night breathing, so we need to celebrate.

- Have you heard from him?

I look at her with the same stare I’d look at an erupting volcano, and its lava coming straight to me. Yeap, it’s coming, I’m not gonna make it, I had a nice life, save the cat!

- Come on, you need to talk about him!

The beer is cold and I can talk about him.

- No.

There! I’ve talked about him!

- How was the trip to Frankfurt?

The beer is cold…

- Cold!

I was in Frankfurt last week. Usually, I pick a seat at the aisle, but somehow, this time I ended up at the window. And I usually fly at night. This time it was a day flight. And I swear I could see whales in the cloud sea below. That cloud sea I always feel like jumping into, or swimming, or floating on small cloud pillows like the Princess in Jack and the Beanstalk. Cloud waves shining like gold, then turning into red flames burning along the tales of the whales. The gigantic tales splash the cloud waves which explode into millions of rays of red light, which then burst like soap bubbles and end up in a still, glassy surface and I can almost spot a curious eye, and I remember THE LIFE OF PI, or CAST AWAY, and I feel this inexplicable urge, since I’m claustrophobic and the slight idea of diving can suffocate me, this urge of looking into a whale eye. A wise, and curious whale…

- You know what I don’t understand?

Her voice is weak, as if traveling through fog, from very far away… I stop writing and I look at her, she’s not the volcano anymore, thank God the cat is safe, I survived as well, and I can act normal, interacting visually, though the words got stuck behind the iris, but she understands my silence and continues:

- You didn’t even love him! So why the drama?

I didn’t see this coming. I don’t have time to duck so I receive the strike in my open chest. My heart skips a bit, as the song would say, I blink, I wake up…

- But of course, what’s love got to do with this?

I resume my typing, the cat sleeps in the rocking chair and tomorrow is another day. Maybe I should go back to CF. I wonder how the CF guy is. Now, that was a healthy infatuation! And I could use some healthy stuff back in my life.

VIOLET EYES

Silence was spinning around

the flickering flame of the small candle.

And the tea tasted like your kiss

I never felt.

Only by closing my eyes

can I answer unuttered questions

with the violet eyes

of my endless thoughts.

I’ll walk the line

only if you pave it with scores

to sing so loud

the Moon will start dancing.

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