Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Five Years Later

Five years is a long time. Day by day, nothing really changes. Year by year, however, everything does, even the things you didn't necessarily want changed. But that's the thing about change, you see. It happens. It happens, irrespective of whether you're actively searching for it or not. It happens, when you least expect it, could be on a sunny Saturday afternoon in May or a harsh winter night in December. It happens, slower than the speed of sound, faster than the bubbles on this lava lamp that's been sitting abandoned in my room for the past five years.

Five years. It's a long time. Longer than the general American presidency. More real than the answer to the "where do you see yourself in x years?" question. Five years, you think they go by in the blink of an eye, except for when you come back home to your room, to your never ending time machine. Because then, five years translates to more memories, more hopes set aside, more dreams come true. Dreams that you never thought possible back then especially if it meant them sleeping next to you on a slightly lower hideaway bed. Dreams that are written down on a scented diary that you no longer use. Dreams adorned by one too many silver linings.

Five years. It's a lot of words too. Lots of words said, lots of words written. Words said in anger, happiness, love, and sometimes even sadness. Words written in a language often misunderstood. Words I needed to spit out, often incoherently. Words. Too many of them. Five years worth in fact. Five years. Five years of this. Five years of Life Unplugged.

Thank you for tuning in.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

I Didn't Stop

I didn't stop writing because I met you. I stopped writing because when I am with you I have nothing left to say. Because when I hear your heart beat through your chest, every word that I would have put down on paper, dissipates like smoke coming out of a fireplace. Because when you kissed me, on that bridge in Warsaw, you sucked the words right out of my mouth, and the pen and paper that I always carry around with me just in case I have something riveting to say, became useless, like a struggling writer on sabbatical whose bleeding fingers have now healed.

Because the truth is that I wrote to suffocate the pain. Because I never thought that I would be able to have this, anything like this, anyone like you. Because for most of my dreamlike existence, frogs like you alternated between different dimensions, just never this one. They smooched princesses who had no intention of ever waking up. They rode horses upside down inside a dark room surrounded by barbed wire. They skinned wool off of sheep, sewed it into invisibility cloaks, then sold them for less than a quid at a side street store in Praga, on the east bank of the river Vistula.

Because when you look at me with that boyish grin, I become a teenage girl again, only this time it's real, unlike all the other times, when it wasn't. Because I fell for you like rain in summer and leaves in winter. Because, looking at you now, my fingers felt the urge to do one of two things, bleed or write. Which I guess brings me back to this.

No I didn't stop writing because I met you. I stopped writing because when I am with you I have nothing left to say. Clearly.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Before You

It scares me how hard it is to remember life before you,
before you dipped your feet into my sunny shade of cobalt blue.
Before our hearts exploded and we became one, or two, or three,
before we swam, or let's say floated, in the Mediterranean sea.

I struggle to remember what it was really like, or if it even was,
the silence in my lungs, dead by suffocation the probable cause.
Before we said what we said thousands of feet in mid, stale air,
and me, free falling, catching fire; a furiously famished flare.

Before our earth map and all the unscratched places to visit,
the temptations to buy an around the world one way ticket.
Before our lips curiously collided and recreated the big bang,
and because I can't whistle, (although I try), instead I sang.

So yes, it seems foolish now to play this game of better or worse,
seeing how this life can never be truly lived remotely in reverse.
Still, it's a little bit funny, how with everything I had to go through,
I still can't seem to remember life before you.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


If there was ever a month to scribble something down, it should have been this one. But maybe, that is the exact reason why I didn't.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

I Wrote You A Letter

But it's not for the world to see.

I wrote you a letter, in our shabby apartment in the heart of Camden, adorned by the unassuming story of you and me. You, and me, and the infinite number of words I had to write before I found you, before I found this, us. You, and me, meticulously woven to a dream catcher I still haven't bought.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Berlin (I Thought Of You)

Overshadowed by the streamlined buildings in Berlin, I thought of you. Of the Dunhill cigarettes you didn't smoke in our house. Of the pirate adventure stories you used to tell me as a kid, which only instilled in me this strong desire to see, to live, to just be; this idle impulse to be a pirate and a captain, of my own made up ship.

I thought of you when I was in Berlin, not because Berlin reminded me of you, but because it didn't, and it should have. So I thought of you. Of the way you used to comb your moustache with your right index finger, and then keep on talking as if combing anything with a finger is the most normal thing in the world to do.

I thought of you, on a day where reality was mistaken for a memory, and funerals were replaced by carnivals, on a day where seeing you meant that you were still here, still pretending that I wasn't your favourite, when you and I both know that I was, not because I was better, but because I was your first.

I thought of you, when I was waiting for the Ampelmann to turn red, and then green, and then again alongside the psychedelic part of the Berlin Wall. I thought of you, of the way you undefined love, almost as if it was a concentrated solution you just needed to dilute but didn't know how.

I thought of you, when I couldn't think of anything else, when the metallic lump in my throat came back and I started to question the fertility of my illusive imagination. I thought of you, somewhere in between here and there, somewhere in between then and now.

I thought of you. Overshadowed by the streamlined buildings in Berlin, I thought of you. And of the Dunhill cigarettes you didn't smoke in our house.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

White Daisies

I don't know how fast a heart would have to beat for it to forget all the words that were said in its presence, for if I knew, if I knew how fast, I would probably remember more. But they say that less is more and I say that less is beautiful. Like you, for instance, asking me to imagine a life up in the clouds, not knowing that up in the clouds is where I always am when I am with you. Like you asking me to guess how high that bird is flying, when I, still sitting on the green grass beside you, was already hovering right there with him. I say less is definitely more. Because when you asked me to estimate the number of daisies surrounding us, and then again when I was squeezing a little white one between my fingers, when you said the things you said and then leaned in to stop saying more, less became infinite, and less became beautiful.

And yet, I still don't know how fast a heart would have to beat, but I think it's safe to say that mine got pretty close. And it's not because of what you said, but because of how you said it, of how the universe reacted to cheer you on. I hovered because of the way my hand felt in yours, because up until then my hands were foreign, so alien in fact that I never knew where to put them or what they usually do. I soared because of the way we fed the famished ducks, almost as if we were six again, and time didn't matter, because time never does, not when I am with you.

For when I am with you, time travelling exists, and I can go back to the day I made myself believe that life is chaotically unpredictable, and that being a dreamer is the most exciting way of cruising through it. Because it is, and it seems as if I chased mine long enough until I caught them.

And it seems as if I unplugged my heart until I found you.

Saturday, June 14, 2014


If you were to ask me what it is I want from life,
the jewels of a queen, or the apron of a housewife,
I'd go for the apron, without a shred of doubt,
and I would stick to it and never back out.

Because happiness is not proportional to money,
and you can smile even when it's not sunny.
Because there is no point in having it all,
if you go to bed at night with no one to call.

And I understand now, now that I can finally see,
what you had tried to tell me all those years ago,
when I was little and so I had plenty of time to grow,
when telling the time meant that it was still going slow.

Back when I whispered "Mum, I think I'm scared",
so you took my hand, looked into my soul, and cared.
Told me "I know. But life's not for the faint hearted.
It's for people who fall, get up, and get started."

And you're right, my emerald jewel, you're absolutely right.
We do not live forever but we can always shine bright.
Like the sparkle that still scintillates in your eyes,
the one that I am almost certain awakens the northern skies.

For you are why the stars align every night,
and why I know what I know so I hold on tight.
You are everything a wonderful woman should be,
and I will challenge anyone who does not agree.

You are more beautiful now than I can remember, more than
when I first opened my eyes that day in September.
You are the epitome of the perfect mum,
the real reason why we are who we've become.

Thank you for showing me the light when I was blind,
when kindness and hope and patience I could not find.
Thank you for looking at the world through an untainted lens,
for making me believe that life will always somehow make sense.

You are my fifty kinds of happiness, and I love you.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

The Trojan Horse

It's the oldest saying in the book, that actions speak louder than words. Everyone knows it, and everyone believes it. Everyone, except for the writer that is. Because the writer, he thinks actions are dispensable, superfluous, an unnecessary evil if you will. He thinks "action" is another word for passive aggressive, a sorry synonym for maybe, never, someday, bullshit. So he uses, nay, hides behind, words instead, because words are his ultimate weapons of choice, weapons that vaguely resemble the water guns I never had as a kid. Words are a figment of his imagination, which is where they will stay most of the time, hidden in the abyss of a soul moving aimlessly in perpetual motion.

So much so that, at night, when he's in bed worrying about the words he said, almost said, could have said, and those he didn't, he overlooks one very crucial detail. And that is that, by choosing words over actions, he's also choosing to become a low level coward, the one who always gets killed off first, irrespective of how important he thinks his storyline is. In all fairness, there were moments, few and far apart, where his words did save him, but they were his downfall when it truly mattered. In fact, if he stops to think about it for a second, he will realise that not many heroes fought their archenemy with a run down, second hand version of The Oxford English Dictionary.

Because real heroes, and real men, they fight, not with sentences, but with swords. They get battered, they get bruised, scarred, but they get up again. Real men hide inside Trojan horses and not behind words. They will go after what they want and they will get it. They will not sit around and wait for it to come to them. Because they know that once it's gone, it's gone for good. You see, real men are bold and brave. When lions die, they die knowing that their heart will keep on beating inside someone fearless. For that is who real men are. They have a lion's heart and they are not afraid to show it. They know what it's like to honour the oldest saying in the book. They know.

Because at the end of the day, they know, that actions speak a hell of a lot louder than words.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

The Camper In My Head

I look at him, from a distance, making sure he doesn't see me. He's wearing a checked cowboy shirt and an old pair of farmer jeans even though I'm quite certain he's neither. Because he, as of two sentences ago, is just the camper in my head. He's the one who put up a tent right in the centre of my unhinged nervous system, the one who has been starting fires then putting them off. He's the one who has been humming what used to be my favourite song; used to be, because he hummed it so much it's now no longer relevant. Be careful what you wish for. Chances are you might just get it all. But you don't. Not really. Not with a camper lurking inside your head.

There's a camper in my head, painting over my walls with a different shade of white, unaware of the fact that white is not a colour, at least not to me. And he knows this, because he's inside my head. He knows, I'm sure he does. He knows that the kaleidoscope of colours with which my walls are painted cannot be painted over, especially not with white. But he's still painting, and he's still humming, and he's still starting up fires and putting them off.

So I dive in, to stop him and fail, simultaneously satisfying my curiosity as to what it's like inside my head. And it's not very different. Because the words we didn't say, and the punch lines we didn't use, they're very much alike, inside and outside. They're the same. Like two damaged pearls growing inside two perfectly sculpted oysters. Like two cumulus clouds in the darkness of the night. They're the same. Like our first and third time. And while there's nothing wrong with consistency, sometimes you just have to let your hair down, or, in your case, the extra large tent you inadvertently put up inside the deserted corridors of my head.

You can't always see him, but there's a camper in my head, screwing around with what used to be a perceptively polished organ. There's a camper in my head, swimming in my Lake of Grey Matter with nothing but his sexy straw hat on. There's a camper in my head, living rent free, obviously oblivious to the eviction notice I recently put outside his kaleidoscopic tent.

Monday, March 31, 2014

If The World Was Flat

If the world was flat, I would ask you why. But then I would have to wait. I would have to wait for you to come up ten million different reasons as to why the world isn't really flat. Because that's what you do, or at least that's what I think I thought you do. So I'm not going to. I'm not going to ask you why. I know the world is not flat. I've known that for a while. But if you had humoured me, just for a second, we wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be here. You had the power to make me believe that the world is in fact flat. You had it, on your doorstep, in your hands, yet you threw it all away. You see, all I needed was a second, because maybe, in that second, I would have dared to ask you why. But then I would have had to wait. And I don't want to.

I don't want to wait for the sun to set behind our hypothetical horizon, for the poet to write a poem with our unspoken words. I don't want to wait for spring to turn into summer, autumn into winter. Because if I do, if I do wait, I would be running against gravity, and as much as I want to, run against it, as much as it thrills me to do the opposite of what needs to be done, that's not the natural order of things. Running against gravity is dangerous. Like riding a roller coaster without putting a seat belt on. Or skinny dipping at night in an uncharted ocean. It's dangerous, I get that, but isn't fear life's twisted way of telling us that something is worth diving into, and worth waiting for? So really, shouldn't we all be running against gravity?

But then it comes back full circle. Because if what you're waiting for was never even there to begin with, then maybe the problem was that I never bothered to ask you why in the first place. And I would have. If the world was flat, I would have asked. But then I would have had to wait.

And I don't want to.

Monday, March 17, 2014

When I Was Eleven

When I was eleven, I told my mum
I wanted to be twenty seven. She said
"Child, you've got to appreciate life
one day at a time. Treasure it,
make sure it's worth the climb."

When I was twelve, I found a book,
in a library, on a shelf. It said
"Poor are those who do not have
enough time to smile, for smiling
is what makes this life worthwhile."

When I was thirteen, I stumbled on
a place in between, what I know
and what I still have to discover,
a hummingbird in reverse,
way too excited to hover.

When I was fourteen, I watched
a movie on the big screen. Boy
meets girl and then girl died.
But that is no excuse for not
opening your heart open wide.

When I was fifteen, a fortune cookie
from an old vending machine told me
that rivers need springs, that if you
want to get anywhere, you've got
to grow yourself a pair of wings.

So I did.

And now here we are, ten years later,
small talking with a mediocre translator.
I call home at twenty o' seven, wishing
I could go back to when I was eleven.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Towards The Sun

Take me to a place I never thought I knew,
where the sky is yellow and the sun is blue,
where the honest hearts are wild and young,
climaxing to a song that has never been sung.

Take me there, to the world's end,
where if we touch, we could just blend,
where what we are is what we chase,
a marathon in slow motion, set in space.

Take me with you, to the here and now,
then pull me closer and ask me how, is it
that the laws of attraction are on our side,
when all we seem to do is run and hide.

Take me, fly with me, to never never land,
then merge your wing with my left hand,
so if we fall, we'll fall, and rise, together,
like two befuddled birds of the same feather.

Take me to the turquoise sunset down below,
accidentally staged, like an indie circus show,
like a plethora of butterflies inside a mini jar,
and the mis misalignment of the north star.

Take me to that place I never thought I knew,
where the sky is yellow and the sun is blue,
where what's inevitable and long overdue,
is the story of me, flying with you.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

I Can See You

If I fast forward a couple of years. I can see you. I can see you driving along the coast with the windows down and the radio up. You have one hand on the steering wheel and one entwining mine. I can see you smiling, that same smile you wore when I first met you, the one that makes my knees go weak, the one that makes me crave poetry, such that if life's a mountain, then you're it's peak.

I can see you. I don't know how, but I can. I can see the flicker in your eyes when you unexpectedly tune into the acoustic version of that Mumford and Sons song you like so much. I can see it and I can recognise it. You had the exact same spark when I told you we were going to see them live on your birthday, and then again, but much more brighter, when we were jumping frantically up and down in front of the stage, screaming and shouting, almost as if we were the only two people left in this world. We weren't; the roaring crowd was delirious. When we then snapped back into reality, all we remembered were the distant echoes of "I really fucked it up this time", and you, looking at me, oblivious to the light emanating from your soul and the little city you single handedly created inside the ventricles of my rural heart.

I can see you pretending we're not lost, when we both know we've been lost ever since you decided to change lanes at the interstate. I can see you trying really hard to find your way back, not knowing that deep down, lost is exactly how I want to be, that getting lost with you is my go to natural high. And it's not like I haven't been lost before. I've been lost plenty of times. But getting lost with you is immeasurably better than getting lost without you. Yes, I can see you. I can see you glancing at the dream catcher I hung on the rear view mirror, the one I bought from London a couple of years back, back when I needed all the help I could find, back when purchasing a handmade object that supposedly catches your dreams was the best I could do.

I don't know what you look like, but I can see you. I can see you pulling the car over to the side of the road just as the sun is about to set. It's so beautiful it renders me speechless. And you, you're not saying anything either. I guess you don't have to. You know I know. I know you know. And we just leave it at that.

Yes, yes, I can see you. If I fast forward a couple of years. I can see you. Meticulously woven to a dream catcher I still haven't bought.

Saturday, January 18, 2014

Free Falling

There is something imperceptibly attractive about falling towards gravity.
Imagine existing inside a kaleidoscope, but with a little more clarity.
Your long forgotten heart flutters its weary wings, gets ready to fly,
then bursts like frisky fireworks on the fourth of July,
somersaulting frivolously, dismissing the ground beneath,
understanding the real meaning behind "just breathe".
And then for just a second, time stops,
and the world becomes a paradigm for broken clocks,
one in which the white rabbit is never late,
and good things come to those who wait.

It's a free fall in slow motion,
frozen, like the Arctic Ocean.
Skyscrapers disappear, and
we are now and we are here.
We time travel to a whole new land,
naked, but slightly covered in sand.
I ask and you reply.
I might just do it. I might just try.
Because with gravity on our side,
we might as well collide.