This is Not Attractive

rain on the horizon. dripping down like tears over unknown hopes. Incubating days of sorrow and joy . Leaving a trace that can hardly be found. When all is covered in a tick mantle of grey the branches salute the sky unheard.Their prayers reach up and meet the blank stares of tourists watching for interesting events to take them away from the blandness. Fallen into a long tunnel of expectations I wonder searching for the way out. nothing personal, I am told. all is fiction. So I search through the lines trying to decipher the hidden references to facts known to me but the dust seeps through my fingers and falls at my feet forming patterns I fail to recognize. The poet is depressed, standing on the top of the hill looking down. He can only see me through a curtained veil. The light is dim and he can just make out the shape but I am shifting, ready to move on. The shadow is fleeting, just like the hours and you gotta catch them when you see them. the gypsy travels on in some faraway land

Unfinished business. That smug way of behaving really gets on my nerves. I know I haven't really ever voiced my anger and so it goes unsaid every time. It builds and builds but I don't care enough to really air it, because it would require so much effort and unless I see him it's out of my mind. But every time I do it is a subtle annoying presence between us. I just resent the way he presents himself as a wise guy with the right answer to things, while in reality he doesn't have a fucking clue. Today he made up a poem on the spot and it was about how we all wear masks and why do we do that. At the end of the poem I suggested it might be fear. The response was fierce: well, that s certainly NOT the answer. mmm. interesting I thought. What a passionate response to a simple remark. As soon as he said those words I  felt intense heat come into my chest. I wanted to answer : how could you possibly talk about masks, assuming everyone is wearing one and hiding parts of themsel

This morning I feel sad. Woke up from a disturbing dream. I felt left out , while everyone else around me was getting involved with family, evenings out, a busy life. I was angry in my dream because it was easier to experience that emotion rather than anger. I know Venus is in retrograde, my friend told me so yesterday. Apparently it means that these are threacherous times when it comes to romantic entanglements. There are two more weeks of it to come. So the advice is, stay away from lust fuelled beginnings of new relationships and also beware of the tendency to idolize past lovers. Tick, tick. I feel confused. A lot going on and yet it's all a bit messy. I know the solution is to just hang in there and let things pan out the way they will. I guess my naive self just wanted instant solutions, big explosions in the sky, a new mind blowing beginning. But this is the child speaking inside of me. I guess the adult knows better. Today I want to close the door on being there just

Holding someone, because they need it, because you can see their soul longing for that love they deserve and haven't been given enough of. Holding this person and feeling their life force surge like a warm wave engulfing everything in a light that's healing. Connection is what truly heals and why only have it with one or two human beings when there are billions out there who need love and cannot find it ? The power of touch is underestimated, and so essential to our well being. It does not need to be sexual though it can be. We also have stripped sexuality down to its bare bones and left nothing of the immense spiritual power it possesses. We make love without looking at each other and then we wonder why we feel so empty. Sexual energy and spiritual energy need not be separate. The life force resides within our body and the spiritual is the body. The body is sacred and if it is treated as such it becomes the perfect vehicle for spiritual connection with the world. There is no

I dreamed of you last night. A version of you I created in my mind. Your hair was the same, your face was the same, your lips were the same, your eyes were the same. You talked the same way, but I don't know if you kissed the same way. I don't know if the sweetness of those lips are just a figment of my imagination or if they are real. I know that in my dream you were like a force of nature, irresistible and fluid. Like water relentlessly pulling away at the shore. The smile you had stamped on your face and the spark in those eyes held me captive and immobile. Just like when I met you and unbeknown to you I stared at you thinking : I could kiss that mouth. I wonder what it'd be like to bite those lips gently with my teeth. I wonder what it'd be like to feel the wetness of his kiss mingled with the bittersweet smell of his breath. I wondered what you'd look like when you'd feel my desire awaken. So I filled in the gaps and imagined it all. And now I smile to myse

Skin. Smooth. Prickly. Rough. The edge of a table. A hand clicking glass against glass. Whisky. You are my hero. Red cushions. Frosted glass. The smell of old books. There's a draft by the windows and the bedside lamp doesn't work. The words, they flow like a river in the northern countries. Cliches. passions.Tthe wish for warmth and comfort. If only it were so simple. A straight line. From up the mountain down the slope and onto the finish line. Don't look at the rock over there! Pay attention goddamit ! And the smile is stamped on his face. Hair like wild tall grass blown away by the wind. Trembling. Seed. Fragile and yet pushing hard upwards. Silence. Expectancy. Excitement. Fantasy. Wishing for a dream to tantalize the senses. Wait. Watch. See. Learn. A movement of eyes on canvas. A thousand days lost in unforgettable mist. Eternal present. The presence of sound. Forgotten memories. Distorted sleep. And many more unknown tomorrows to discover. Patience. Slow. Whispering

Coincidences. Watching the sky change colors just out of sight. How did I get here , after years of sighs and tears and now there s a vague sense of hope, a smile forming on my lips, hours spent talking about nothing in particular and everything. An opening. Listening. To that voice that once got squelched and hid somewhere under endless strata of 'shoulds' and 'ought to" . I am tired of wasting that precious time I have been given. It really won't come back ever again so why pretend that's an illusion ? The mountain looms in the forefront of my vision but the little man advances step by step, going forward with his pack on the shoulders. When he gets to the top he might take something out of it and watch it intently. Did I really need this up here ? Was it worth it carrying it all the way up ? Dreaming of solutions resting in the future is like floating on artificially salted water. It's not the real thing is it ? And I don't want to live through ot