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Showing posts from March, 2016

My sandwich is depressed

To make a simple sandwich you need two slices of bread. Some butter. Cheese and ham.
I have all those ingredients. Usually, when I wake up I go straight to the kitchen. I make a cup of tea or black coffee and start multitasking tirelessly.
I always toast bread. Toast is healthier and since I can remember (and my memory is unfortunately good) I have never had untoasted bread. What's the rush anyway, it only takes a few seconds and it tastes better and healthier.
My friends always seem to have issues with the way I make sandwiches.
So what, I spread the butter starting from the middle and then in no particular pattern or direction. Still, all I'm doing is spreading butter on toast. Same outcome.
So what, I don't bother carefully cutting the ham in a certain shape that it covers the bread equally. If I can eat a sandwich with more ham in the middle than in the corners, then so be it. My sandwich.
It takes me less than five minutes to make a sandwich.
I like sandwiches.

A happy boy killed himself

He died. And that was the first time you learnt about the pain he hid inside.
For most of the time he smiled and he goofed around. A glass of wine here, a hot dog the next day, an extra cheesy pizza guy. A messy hair, fifa playing guy. A good at physics and always at the gym guy.

He died. He had never said he wanted to. Not to you. Maybe to someone, in the past, who didn't take him seriously enough. He was just an attention seeker in the past, wasn't he? When he said he wanted to die. But he had all the care in the world and all the possibilities laid out in front of him like a soft carpet.

He healed. He became his joyous, friendly, middle class boy self again, before he died. You never saw sadness in his face. Only a wild curious look in the depth of his green pea coloured eyes often hidden by blonde curls and dimples on his cheeks when he smiled.

His smiles, like his friendly fist bump, always available, always for free. And nobody realised that he was hiding. Behind the…

Let her go.

Let her go.
If all you like about her is a pair of hot legs in high heeled sandals, don't call her the next day. Her legs that look strong and shapely to you have a story behind them. Do you love the story?
She ran a thousand miles away from her first heartbreak. She ran towards a love that was not fleshy. A love that was true and only hers.
Don't hold back her legs. They're only strong because they need to run. Let them fucking run. You'll not be able to hold her back for long anyway.
Let her go.
If you're awed by the way she lives her life with all her might, you probably lack the passion. So don't hold her back. Don't tie her up in routine. She's tried it, she loved it for a while but it never worked. So let her go, and take her passion beyond you. If you truly loved her you'd caress her tired head and you'd be fine with being her comfort, her quiet place, her boring escape in a life filled of wander. You'd appreciate, how boring is the b…

What love is more love?

Early morning. Tears are dry and the mind is sharp again. The earthly pain of a small heartbreak turned into something less painful, more intense. Questions.
What if.
What if our hearts fell in love before our bodies did? Just like the old times. What if our minds longed for shelter in each others words more than our backs did in each others chests? Would love, be more loving then?
Would we love each other better if we appreciated every freckle? Or would we love each other better if we appreciated every silence, and lack off.
What if there was someone that would appreciate the essence of us, before they could appreciate each inch of our skins?
Someone who believes in our art and our little fluffy dreams. Someone who makes us believe with them.
What if, we truly loved, and were loved, beyond time and distance, beyond imagination and expectation... Simply loved because our souls fit into each other like the perfect hands to hold.
What then? Would that kind of love be more love?

Why loving me is uncommon, and that's ok.

I'm the daughter whose mother went to work the next day after I was born. And I'm proud.

I'm the daughter of a mother who raised me on her own, and broke all judgement with which I could have grown. The daughter of a mother who didn't stop to gossip at the gates of the school. A mother who was barely ever seen at the gates of the school. Because she worked 7-7, and she brought bread in the table, and other goods. More than some people's fathers would.

I'm the daughter of a mother who loves me more than anything. A mother who can be both mother and father because she's that strong. A caring mother, even more attentive than those who stay at home all day being bored to death by their child. And I am just like my mother.

I'm the daughter of a mother who found love when her life was already whole, and whose love just doubled her wholeness and loved it all.

My love is intense, the kind you'll only see at the end of a day after having shared all the h…