The fear for the next day always comes a day earlier

created on 10th November 2007 (old post)


Fear makes us all have a horizon of our own. When cold penetrates our scrag, we all make circles and eat each other with hidden smiles, with sharp teeth and wearing our horns.
We all have this blame we don’t know about. He made us to humiliate us; he threw with the sin’s apples in us. My sky today has no more stars…it’s only mud.
A woman’s shout when she gives birth,
The young soldier that dies without his lover,
A lost thought in your mind,
A rain drop on your dreamy tired eyelashes,
A leaf that you hold, lost in thoughts, between your fingers,
Time,
Days,
Years,
Particles of sand
Those make us older,
As if all of us were guilty of this blame we don’t even know about…
How much loneliness and emptiness…for you not to understand the understandable, when there is something to understand!
It soon will come a time when, I hope, we will decompose the endless chain of deceptiveness. Then, our low self being and our sins will abandon us in the same time this unpleasant flesh prison that caves us will. Afterwards, what will stay with us will be only the light of our minds. We are like stained glass windows…we shine and glow in day light, but when darkness falls, our true beauty is shown only if there is light within. As years run away from us, we remain just with our principles and beliefs, which we cannot touch or play with. People are as beautiful as the shadows of their ideas.
Why do you see me as the dead child that’s sleeping for you and you reach in vain your hand towards me, since I am the body and the word that burns for you? It’s my turn to want to be sorry and to call for all I was chasing away once. I leave among dead leaves of a heart. I just find pieces of myself in each one of you and I don’t recognize the collage.
I am just a soundless sway of undetermined wings, a vivid song of leaves, a naked step on a hot green plant, a lost smile in your sunrise, an open but never read love letter, a moonbeam slippering on a leg, a symphony of unspoken words.
We blindly step on silent rocks and lifeless leaves. Maybe someday the human soul pale ray, after passing through degrees of glory, will become a glittering and peaceful light.
I see eternity as an endless rest, as a home full of light, not as an abominable and abyssal grave. Still, I’m just an ink stain that speaks your language.
I cannot confound the murderer with his murder. I can only honestly forgive him and still hating the act he did. I cannot allow revenge feelings to take over my soul; the sin doesn’t disgust me that much; so I can estrange form the guilty one, and say that injustice does not make me feel like I’m loosing my courage. I am just living my life waiting for its end.
We all die little by little…