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Showing posts from 2015

No such thing as a real woman!

She's a girl. About six or seven. Playing outside with the boys. Other girls mums tell them not to hang out with her, because her mother is not like them, and she's not like them either. She goes home crying. She plays by herself.

In her early twenties. She knows her way. She possesses a confidence that makes you uncomfortable. A sense of self. God forbid!

She's one of those women. The 'strong' ones. The ones who do not even need to go against the label. A grey suit woman wearing a flowy dress and bright red lipstick. Women who do not fit in.

She's the woman, other women in real grey suits dismissed as too girly, too cute, less smart. She's the woman, other women in flowy dresses dismissed as too manly, too independent, too smart.

She's the woman whose glass ceiling in life is other women. She thinks, she should have been born a boy.

She's lonely.

In her mid twenties. She is yet to learn her limits. She is most likely to be single. Her best frie…

To the one who reads.

I'm a complicated book. The kind that gets picked up and tires you on the first page like a long novel by Victor Hugo. And you put it back on the shelf in the old library and you leave.

And I, lonely, long for someone who can read me. Some stranger from faraway who reads old complicated literature. Who understands my structure and doesn't miss a single comma. Someone who knows the value of how I'm crafted.

This stranger, from another continent, will make me want to come alive. Jump out of the yellow pages and speak to him. And wrap my arms around him and show him all the history and images I took away with me from the stained papers.I'd like to look him in the eyes, and tell him he indeed knows nothing, and that's the only truth. I know nothing.

But our nothingness, dear reader, is much more than the everything of someone else. Our nothingness, is something I can not bring out and let go off. Our nothingness is beautiful and dangerous. Our nothingness conquers a…

The boy that survived.

Mother never loved the purple boy. It was weak and sickly, mauve coloured, like a bruise.
Her little boy.

Life was wasted in its ill blood and its heart would not withstand a single day. Thus mother, didn't have to love the purple boy. With her hands soft and gentle like a sneaky poison, she lowered it, the child, on the hospital bed and left. Silently. Like a thief.

But the sick baby did not cry. He struggled with his little lungs to sip a breath of oxygen. He struggled with his little heart to pump blood on his bruised veins. A few days later, he struggled with his little hands to get hold of the nurses hair.

Oh mother, your baby boy is alive and healthy now. He grows everyday more beautiful. But everyday with pain. Because you left, before he could leave you.

You sold yourself, mother. And his little heart never stopped the struggle, mother. That little bruise you could not love, is still there mother, everyday a new one. Because he struggles. He fights for his life, mothe…

If I could be loved...

Don't look at me. Please.

I want to be loved inside out.

I hope you can fall for the short afternoons of our conversations and the loud sound of my heart. I hope you can understand I will never be yours and love me nonetheless. Like I would too. I want you to send me warm rays of sun in the morning and whisper words of peace into my soul.

Please. Don't look at me. My skin can bruise and wrinkle. My hair changes with the seasons and my lips may be too dry for you to kiss. Oh, but we wouldn't kiss!

Your distant lips would be ghostly on mine. In a dream world, you would kiss me straight into my heart and our souls set on fire would make endless love.

I'd want you to feel me beyond time, with faraway winds that bring my thoughts and wishes. Find me spread out in the earth that grows wild flowers and pink petals in the desert's cacti. Hear me in the sound of heavy rains and love me.

Don't look at me with eyes full of lies and desire, for that has hurt me enoug…

Dance is a metaphor. Passion is the hidden word.

A pirouette. One, unlike the pretty little ballerinas in pink. A bright and vibrant pirouette. One with all the passion and speed of the angriest of winds. She falls back on her legs shaking. Another pirouette. A violent arabesque.

She is not a ballerina in pink tutu. She's a woman in red cheeks and hot sweaty skin. Anger is the only technique she knows. Nothing subtle about her moves. Nothing polite and elegant. Nothing holding back. She dances to break her legs. Nothing would give her more pleasure.

She falls on the ground, backwards. Laughs. Imagines her arms just falling off as she shakes them up in the air, with all the strength in her. Her bed's a cliff top, the sea is wild underneath. She jumps and spreads her wings like a bird. Lets herself burn like a phoenix.

Her body flows with every heartbeat. As if it was made of waves. These waves of anger tickling her veins like she's been injected with music. Hair-pulling, body-moving, skin-scratching anger.

Faster than…

Under the shadows of feeling blue we forgot some happiness...

The air feels heavy with the bitter smell of gas.

He whistles together with the pipes. There's a certain harmony between him and his job.He likes it, even though his lungs must not like it a lot if they're inhaling gas all the time. His hands seem to be made for twisting pipes, like my brain is for twisting words.

Does it hurt? I would guess, they won't be soft and elegant like the boys that sometimes hold mine.
But he does his job with a smile on his face that I have long not seen in college boys, or me.

He likes to explain what he does, and he makes it sound so interesting. So happy. So simple it sounds, yet, I don't understand a thing. But I smile, and I nod, and I listen carefully to his cheerfulness.

He moves lightly, like air. Like gas. Like a flowing poem. His working tools sit in his hands as if he were a perfect statue. Someone should make that statue.

So many artists have been spent on mystery and misery, beautiful women and verses of love, while this r…

Real love.

Typing a story is like playing on a piano. You have to love each key, your hands are in tune with your heartbeats and it feels as if they just type away with a brain of their own.

Writing, it's like making love. No. It's better. It lifts you up in a sky full of whatever your strange strange head creates. It makes your heart breath and your lungs pump.You're producing rhythms of pictures in your head.

It's musical, photographic, it's the most intense way of expressing yourself. Writing, is every art.
In the end, it is, straightforward thinking put to shape, through every single comma, and every single dot upon an i.

Writing is my greatest love, and I give my all to it. I don't even care if it's good or bad. I can never stop. I can never give it up. I will never want to. I want nothing in return.

I could write about anything and everyone and nothing else in life could matter. I could live forever.
Writing feels like, drinking a glass of water after danci…

Across the fog!

You're far, my lovers. Far across the sea. Far in the horizon, where only these white ships can find you.

Remember the Adriatica. The big, beautiful floating Adriatica. I knew it only too well as a child. Summertime, early morning, waiting, expecting with love and hope, and excitement. Ready for hugs and tears of nostalgia.

You're far now my lovers. I left in the end. I'm the one crossing boarders now. Somewhere, someone waits for me, across the sea. I don't wait anymore. It's been many years since the time we waited for Adriatica. The excitement faded long ago.

I sit on the window sill. Winter, cold and damp. Wouldn't it be wonderful if big white Adriatica appeared out of the fog and brought some sunshine, and a promise of love?


Fireworks always seemed to her like just another horrible gun. Shot to the sky and it is left injured and bleeding sparkles. The noises. The noises just like the guns she remembers too well. Breaking the sound of thought...

Sounds like these, are mostly scary in silence, outside in the unexpected. But loud music and massive screaming crowds dumb them down. They're safety. Crowds of drunken youngsters and music loud enough for your heart to beat to it, that fills you up and makes you feel like life's a lake and you're floating gracefully (nothing graceful about sweaty wasted miniskirt wearing, weird dancing girls, but the feeling matters).

All she wanted to do was to keep floating. Away from everything she knew and everything she felt. The things that, could come back with silence. The things that, could scare her in her sleep and make her weak to the sounds of fireworks.

Can't go home tonight. Little girl needs to be cuddled. Not left alone in the scary night. Can…

Not a missing piece.

He reads what I write and every time he does my heart skips a beat. This man, whom I know to be the worst.  He reads me page by page and he also says beautiful words.

I reply cold as ice. My mind strong and my heart distanced. My skin shivers every time I hear his voice. Every time I see his messages: I love you - No you don't!

If you loved me you wouldn't sit and read some stupid metaphors. You'd find me and take me in your chest and keep me safe. If you loved me I would have known what that felt like. I would have never forgotten. If you loved me I would have liked the taste of my birthday cake and I would have hugged and thanked you. I would have maybe not felt the need to celebrate.

If you loved me you would have been the first to know that I'm doing well. That I'm making new steps. That I have plans. That I'm in love.

If you loved me I wouldn't have a piece of me missing. I wouldn't have to be strong. I wouldn't have to modify the memories o…

Thoughts of the faraway...

Where I come from failure is a sin. It is impossible to happen to those you know, and when it happens to those you know of, the polluted air covers it up in dust as if an old memory hidden somewhere in a corner of the attic.

That is what happens to people who fail, people who don’t have anything worth the attention. They disappear in the city of dust and only come back through stories told youngsters who can learn from the mistakes of cousins they have never met. They have never met those cousins who have failed, because nobody you know ever fails. No. Wrong. Taboo. The only people who were part of the family and failed, are those in stories, those you haven’t met. And you don’t want to be them. You don’t want to be told and retold as a story of failure. A fable inherited through generations, most often renewed…

These stories are told and retold to naughty little possible failures, until one day, one of their victims fails. Then the world around them crumbles to dust. Then they start …


I am a crystal cube. A crystal cube is a fragile item and should be packed carefully in bubble wrap and put in a box. A red sticker that says FRAGILE notifies the guys downstairs to handle me carefully. Boxes are sent through the oversize baggage. Airport rules. The conveyor belt moves smoothly. The conveyor belt stops. Starts moving again. I feel a sudden push, like someone has hit me with a hammer. I fall. I have never left the country before. I have never been handled with such little care. They have put something heavy upon me, not paying attention to my flashy sticker. I feel a crack.  Before I left I was a crystal cube. On arrival I am pieces of glass that have to be recycled.


She's happy can you tell?
Her eyes sparkle like the fireflies we used to chase.
My sister, my little one, my friend.
Still reminds me of bottled milk, crushed rusk and chubby cheeks. And matching frilly dresses.
Even though, now she wears crop tops and ripped jeans.
Now she drinks coffee in the morning, and eats little.
Her eyeliner is perfect.
Now she chases dreams, and love, and grown up things.
Simple, subtle and settling. No one has ever looked more beautiful.
If everything disappears from this world, let her smile be last.
How I fear that it may fade.
I've prayed so much for this smile to exist, back when I believed in God.
In front of her big brown eyes, I still do. I'd do anything not to see her cry again (like that time I told her Santa wasn't real).
I'll even allow myself believe for a moment, in something, anything she finds hope in.
I haven't seen her in more than two years. The memory of her soft hugs is starting to fade and crushed rusk d…

A page from the depression years...

I want to die writing! The exquisite, clichéd, romanticism of this idea is rolling in my head in parallels with death ….

My death …
Closer every second
Yet so far …. I think,

I’ll live forever
The lonely image of me,
A colourful painting of a person with a pale personality, me
Typing my feelings on a broken laptop hoping that maybe, if I die …

They’ll understand, That I cannot speak,
I’ve always wished to be physically mute, so I would stop being misunderstood,
But it seems the only way I can mute myself is by as many pain killers as I can have,

And alone, in silence, I write Maybe for the last time,

A part of me hopes that in a few minutes death will come and greet me and lure me with its silent beauty
A part of me is afraid of letting go, the people that I truly care about, that’s the worst part, it hurts right through my chest and burns the corners of my eyes…
The last part of me just wants to write forever
I’m not sure whether it’s writing calming my heartbeats, Or the pain killers in m…

The biggest lie.

I've come a long way from the dark and damp. I've come a long way from the dirt and the smog and the sour smell of alcohol.
I've travelled my whole life in two months.
My whole being. My thoughts, my art, my stupidity and my intelligence.
I travelled in your words when we talked about things that matter.
I travelled in your words when you thought you weren't good with them.
That's stupid. I travel in your words.
Through pieces of mirrors I found in you, showing me reflections of my deepest me.
What are you? If you're not just a silly trick of life making me think I love you.
Making me think I love you.
Messing up my logic.
I don't want to love you, because you're the closest thing to impossible I have ever met in my life.
I don't want to love you because it doesn't make sense to love you.
You're just a lie.
Just as much as a lie as the lies I tell you when I say I don't love you.
You're just that much of a lie.

A girl called Love.

She has light brown eyes. Sweet like honey and shaped like almonds. Her skin is pale, her cheeks blush in a cool shade of pink. She looks like my favourite ice cream. Honey and almonds that is.
Her hair is long and the colour of grain. So full of life, so full of light. She looks like nostalgia for the summer day and the fields that give meaning to the farmers.
I love looking at her because it feels like I'm looking at home.
Her hands are gentle and soft like velvet. They hold my hands when we cross the street and I am scared of the massive traffic. They hold my hands gently, and softly, like a mother would hold a baby.
Her smile too, is delicate, slow, gentle and sunny, like princesses must smile. Hell, even her fake smile is pretty. She could have come out of the many books we read as children.
We grew up together. She has a piece of my heart and a piece of my brain. I have some of hers.
We grew up together. She cannot be explained without me and I cannot be explained with…


Rain falls gently like a cold and lazy shower. It falls restlessly and unsparingly.
I know how it feels, this rain. Falling off the vast freedom of the sky into the magnetic green of the earth.
The magnetic green that won't fall back for the rain, but will take it's freshness and wetness to get rid of the heat and dust that has covered the life of it.
The rain is selfless and foolish. It keeps falling. Falling. Dropping itself straight into the deep green. Giving it life and soul. Beautiful rain. Stupid rain. Good rain.
The earth loves it too, but in a different way. The earth won't fall back for the rain.

The man who sold his soul!

His eyes are big, round and dark brown.
Dark like the secrets of the night and the omen of a raven. Dark like a black cat crossing the path of one that is very superstitious.
His eyes shine with evil. They pierce through every thought you may dare to have, and even those you might not.
They give back nothing.
They're like two soul sucking black holes on the face that has started to show his years.
He ages too.
He's growing old and yellow.
I had a bird on a cage who died of thirst. He was old and yellow too. He had those round, piercing, birdy eyes too.
They'll still shine black when he dies.
Not everything that shines is pretty.

Some people bring happiness wherever they go...

I have a friend who smiles pretty.
My heart melts like a Wetherspoon's chocolate fudge cake just thinking of it.
I long for his smile.
It comes from somewhere magic. Some place with flowers and butterflies and cotton candy.
It shines. I want it.
I want to be the reason for it.
I want his eyes to crinkle up and sparkle when they look at me.
I want to make him happy. I want to make him laugh everytime. I want to see him smile like a child for whom Christmas came early.
More than anything and above everything I feel, I long to see his smile again.
In my world filled with depressed souls, that smile is the brightest thing I have ever seen.
It made me happy.

The should of an end.

A cold summer night. Monday, clubbing night, but the party mood disappeared like the warmth of summer and they soon found themselves out, arguing, driving back home by midnight.
They drove through some dark roads surrounded by vast, peaceful fields. She had always enjoyed the emptiness of the countryside. It seemed to her that it gave her the opportunity to spread her imagination beyond limits.
She looked up to the sky. No stars. This meant that tomorrow would also be a cold day. The thought that nothing would change hung above her head like death.
 You could see the anger on his red face turning into sadness. That kind of soft, vulnerable sadness she despised, for only weak people and those with feelings of guilt could possess this particular sadness. His lips distorted into something like a polite smile as they joined the others in the A. car park. 
The purple forest that looked like the place of fairies during daytime, had turned into a menacing labyrinth filled with wet grass and …


His life is a blur. Foggy little tears hide the truth of the day, spent in a dark corner. Sitting cross legged. Dining with rats.
He is a writer with no paper. A poet of the dark filthy alleys where even the sun is too scared to shed some of it's supreme light.
But he writes the unsaid words on his wrinkled face and in his portruding veins.
He writes with syringes.
He fills his soul with juice that makes his eyes yellow.
They were bright eyes that lost their light to the dark alley, layered with dust through the many years spent in filth.
His life is a blur. He would tell us all about it if he could write or speak a common language.
He is a poet. He really is. But I don't speak his language.
I can only observe the fading light of his eyes and the rats that accompany him on his invisible table.
An ambulance can be heard nearby, but it's not for him.
Nobody will stop for a dying light in a filthy alley.

The good one.

His hugs smell like spring. Soapy and flowery. Like the bright cool days when the weather is just right, and you're out gardening, carefully walking through just washed sheets hanging to dry.
He's a piece of haven. A homely garden in springtime. His pale blue eyes remind me of a lake somewhere in the happy summers of my family holidays in Ohrid. They crinkle up in laughter everytime he smiles.
A young man in his twenties. Unharmed by life, he still possesses that childish, truthful, big smile that makes you fall a little bit in love with him, and spring.
And when he departs, the air feels heavy again, like oxygen is gone.
He's a cotton boy, soft and nice, and clean...

We never talk about it.

We never talk about it. We never even think about it. 
When we do think about it, we keep it to ourselves.  Daniel has an illness. It is a very physical illness and there is nothing strange going on inside his mind. 

It is not a mental illness. He simply had a very high fever as a child and now he still needs to take certain pills so that he doesn't get headaches.  Daniel is very normal. 

He was able to copy architectural drawings free-handed since he was four, amazingly well. You'd think he was a genius, but really he was just a very normal kid and the rest of us simply didn't try as hard.We didn't question that, and when we did, we knew nothing because we were just children and the adults knew better. 
Adults should never be questioned, for they know everything and when they lie, that is right too. But children they don't know right from wrong, so clever children keep quiet and never speak about things at home.  It was curious however, Daniel was clever, more so than …

My teacher, Ronaldo

You’d think that someone called Violet must be very nice and pretty, with such a feminine name… But my geography teacher was nothing like her name. She looked a bit like an ugly version of Ronaldo. With a 90’s style haircut, same protruding jawline, but older and not quite smiling as much. Maybe no one taught her to smile. . And so, she was stuck with the name Ronaldo.
Ronaldo was always grumpy. She would start shouting and spitting abuse at students before her voice could even reach them. Well, not quite shouting. She couldn’t do that. Her voice had eternal flu. She was in her 50’s and had been teaching for quite some time. I guess she also had been shouting for quite some time and that’s how she had lost her voice.
To make up for her lack of shouting power, Ronaldo carried a big, pointy stick with her everywhere she went and threatened to beat people up with it. But out of all the teachers we had that threatened something similar, she was the only one who never went through with i…

The Working Man

He has a half moon face. Not pale in colour. Pale in light. The restless fingers play nervously with his lips, as if something is hiding behind them. As if something is holding back. A vanishing moon, half lit with rage, and shame, and the constant sadness of poverty.
His shoes are ripped and glued back together. The weak material makes his feet warm and sweaty and widens the fake leather. Sick feet, sick soul.
His bony structure reveals a strength different from other men. A raging strength. Yes. But not like the angry boys that are ready to attack.
He has the raging strength of a man that has endured poverty and ignorance. A man who has received the attack with unbreakable bones. It is men like him, that scare me.
He quietly does what he is told. He speaks gently and politely, with half closed lips, still holding back.
He takes the beating like a good, unfortunate dog.
He doesn't bark.

Love is just a feeling, life is what you make it.

I believe that to love someone, you don't need to, or have to be with them. A belief that many disbelieve.

But I'm a lover, not a woman who needs a man to hold her and not look at anyone else. I'm a lover, one of those walking on a thread between heartbreak and eternal bliss. Which is ok, because, either way, I strongly believe my heart has wings and it can fly away any time it wants.

I do love with all the power in me. I do dedicate my whole to love but, love, the feeling, is my journey and my destination. Or maybe I don't even have a destination. Or maybe, I have a greater love you know, the love for love.

I love, with passion and care, but I don't want to have. Even less so, do I want to be had. Not because I fear commitment, but simply because, a feeling is just that, a feeling. Love is just love, and as such, it is liberating...

So I'll love you like crazy for a while, for as long as I can keep my balance on the silky thread of emotions, then, I'll…

Sometimes stupid is the purest form of being, something adulthood seems to be lacking!

Going through old pictures I happen into one of me and my first crush. I'm gone for a moment when I look at myself in that picture. The look in my eyes. Such a naïve smile. Such happy eyes. So in love. The kind of love that, seemed impossible to break. The kind of love that seemed eternal. That cliché shine in my eyes. So true. Where is that gone now?

How have we grown into mean, doubtful beings? Nothing was missing back then. Even if things were missing, they weren't missing in our heads. We were comfortable with life. Ready to take risks and be stupid. We didn't even know we were being stupid so it was all cool.

We loose something, growing up...

A random thought...

Everything has a soul. A feeling, something, call it whatever you want. But everything has that something that captures you in a moment and gets stuck in your memory.
My memory is beautiful. Whether it's a happy or a painful memory, it still is beautiful playing in my eyes like a bright, colourful movie.

Careful. It's fast paced. Contains flashing images and loud music.

There's pieces of dancers and sparkles. Bubbly fires shaking their hot tongues in delirious rhythms. Deep blue waters carrying the weight of me, many memories in me. Sea urchins and sharp rocks. Weddings. First day of school. And the last. Strange faces that have somehow left a mark. A green house. And a red dress. Some of my most precious memories.

How it surprises me when I sit and rummage through my memory in calm, that my most precious memories have no great meaning to my life, but they do to me. Moments with a soul. Moments with a soul that maybe has spoken to my soul. Moments of barely any importance t…

So, are you excited to go back home?

Where is home?

I am told it is right where the heart is, but do I even know where the heart is? Does that mean I don't know where home is?

I've come back from university. Back to my parents home. The home we've lived in for the past four years since we moved to England. It doesn't feel like home. The home I grew up in, back in my country, it doesn't feel like home either. Home stopped being home when I left.

I fail to understand the idea of 'going back home'. People get homesick, I just miss a few people. Maybe I'm so into the moment, that I find home wherever I am and don't really give it much of a thought. Maybe my heart never gets out of my chest so home is always with me. I'm like a turtle, carrying my home around wherever I go.

Or maybe... Maybe I'm homeless. Maybe I am a foreigner wherever I go. I leave a place and the next time I come back it has changed, whether it's a new road, or a new flowery curtain in my room (oh mum!) or new…