I Am Really Fine

road_bw

The secret, almost sneaky way it appeared – so quietly I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t even suspect it was here, from tiny crumbs moving on to bigger bites out of me. Slowly chewing. Step by step. I started to notice something, even if only with the 6th sense. That millisecond when a glimpse of a thought crossed my mind. About something not being OK. Something being there – standing outside the door. Undefinable yet, but already there. Waiting.

But I pretended not to notice. I moved that glimpse further away, with the thoughts that should stay high on the top shelves of one’s mind. But the feeling didn’t disappear. It was neither still, nor quiet. Nor it could be completely silenced. It started to remind about itself in a more open, abrupt way. Stronger. Louder, yet bearable…the slippery “bearable”. I started to catch myself thinking it wasn’t really going away anymore, it never will. It had found hope to fight with, so they were. Fighting. Without sweat and blood but for a long time. I could feel it, almost physically. Unmistakably. Until one was down.

Hope was gone. The other one, full of power, was standing stronger than ever. And it had turned into my secret. To be carried around without being able to ignore, yet kept hidden. Most of the time it worked, though sometimes I walked in circles, trying to avoid a raised eyebrow or a concerned question. I tried to tame it, to talk with it, to even bribe but it was deaf and blind towards my attempts. I read to it. I took it for long walks or staring sessions. At people, trees, clouds, life passing by. To take its mind off me but I didn’t know we had already switched places. The more powerful it became, the less everything there was in me. Less of the “me” I used to be. Less the “me” everyone knew and was used to see. Expected and wished to see.

So I started to hide. Not only my secret but also myself. Sometimes not to disappoint others. Or not to see the worry in their eyes. Being afraid of the questions – asked and not asked ones, the confusion. Other times – because there was so little of me left inside I simply was not able to do anything else than hide. Powerless. I slipped more easily, or fell and crawled. More often. But nobody knew. I always had my “I am really fine” prepared in the pocket. The one that was the easiest to hear and – yes, the easiest to tell.

In the numbest days I sometimes tumbled, letting a couple of words or a sentence roll out of my pocket for someone to notice on the floor. But straight away I realized how wrong it was. Unfair. Towards everyone. Towards myself. So I gathered the scraps back around me, quietly. And it was happy. Finally. It had turned me. We had become one. We are. The Pain.

on the road
of no return silence
suddenly grows

Haibun Monday *The Path*

haibun_barefoot

I have always thought there is nothing similar to the feeling of walking barefoot through a meadow on a summer morning when everything around is just about to wake up. The glistening dew drops, softly bending the blades of grass. Petals of the blossoms, still moist before opening and longing to be caressed by the first ray of light. The wonder to be a part of all that magic every step of the way is almost tingling – as nature’s energy flows in, resonating from toes through every cell of my body.
If there’s anything close to that experience, it is the touch of the beach. Either tiptoeing through the sun scorched sand to the edge of water or just enjoying the tickle and tease of waves. Whispering, alluring or maybe simply teaching to feel. Yes, to notice and understand, to admire, appreciate and never to destroy. Isn’t it one of the paths to find harmony – not only with people around but with nature and oneself in the first place? I am still learning that and, most probably, I always will. Without a pair of shoes, left somewhere far behind…

side by side
fresh footprints in the wet sand
-seagull’ s and mine

dVerse Poets Haibun Monday

Hamish Gunn *Aquila (Eagle) – a Haibun*

And Everything Will Stop…

melting

Now and then I have shared on my blog poems that have caught my eye (heart and soul), and this is one of those moments once again. “Monologue (Requiem)” is a poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva  – one of the greatest Russian poets of the 20th century. Must admit I haven’ t read anyhing so raw for quite some time…

Oh, how many of them
have already fallen into the abyss,
waiting open wide ahead!
The day will come when I will disappear
From the surface of the earth.
And everything will stop-
the singing and always fighting back,
and shining, while tearing myself apart.
The verdure of my eyes and gentle voice,
As well as all the gold strands in my hair.
And life with bite of daily bread,
Will seem to have forgetfulness of the day.
And suddenly it will feel like
There was everything under the sky,
With only one exception – me.
So volatile, like children, in every expression,
And never staying evil for too long.
The one who loved the wee hours,
With all the wood in the fireplace
Turning into ashes,
Violoncello, the often cavalcades
And the tolling village bell…
It’ s me – still so alive and also real
On this very tender land!
Me, never knowing any limits
– nor mine, nor the ones of everybody else,
I turn to you, demanding faith
As well as with my little request of love.
Through days and nights
In whispers and in scribbles on paper:
For truth, my yes and also no,
For the moments of my often sadness
Of this still too early age.
For my constant inevitability
To forgive the old offences,
For all of my rampant tenderness
And always looking a little too proud,
For my need of rushing events,
For all the truth and the game…
Just listen, and don’ t forget to love me
Also for the fact that
Some day I will die.

PS: Not less powerful when turned into a song:

Carpe Diem Ghost Writer * “Kikôbun” by Hamish Gunn*

Hamish Gunn has introduced us to something completely new for me – a form of writing, closely related to poetry – the kikôbun. Our task on Carpe Diem this time is to write a kikôbun – about a journey, or part of a journey or wander. The idea of it being about wandering and observing is very relevant. I decided to give it a try:

The very first time I set foot in that city, I felt at home. Like a traveller who had been around the world and finally had returned to the place, recognized by her heart immediately. There was nothing of the fleeting touristy pathos about the cradle of the Renaissance. Nor need to see all the “obligatory” objects to tick the check-boxes in some non-existing bucket list. I didn’t need to fall in love with it because you don’t fall in love with home – it simply is a part of you. And I knew by the sixth and all the other senses I was right where I was supposed to be.

The feeling of different depth, something that reached beyond my comprehension, yet was not lost in translation for my soul. I found myself standing at Piazza del Duomo with my fingertips exploring the marble of the Baptistery…so familiar, like they had brushed over it before often, in silent admiration. Awareness about where one or another street labyrinth would take me like I had walked there hundreds of times. It was not so much Ponte Vecchio with all the opulent golden bling in the window cases that brought back almost real memories. More like a distant spot down at the Arno river, nearby the stone arches of Ponte Santa Trinita…a reminder of the times I used to watch almost tangible fog slowly disappearing during the morning hours. Or in winter, as the first snow had covered the red rooftops, I had kneeled at the edge of the water, perplexed when the stream in its dark anger wouldn’t nurture the white peacefulness. Yes, the constant fusion in the air, the one I would call “the graceful beauty”, created by art and culture, frequently obstructed by political rises and falls. And those filigree fleur-de-lys all around the city, trying to smooth the sharp edges of Medici stories by purity of lillies.

I don’ t know which was my time there but for sure it goes back much further than Benigni and Gucci. To Galilei or maybe Boticelli. Or probably all the way to Boccacio when he was in need for a muse to create “The Decameron“. Who knows…

Sipping a glass of dark, rich vintage and remembering how the sun generously caressed the ripe olives in the hills of Tuscany, I know there is something more in me than simple fondness for Florence. Imprinted to be decoded some day. In vino veritas.

frozen garden
fleeting across the window panes
silhouette of lily

Carpe Diem Haiku Kai

LOGO+CD+GHOST-WRITER