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Showing posts from June, 2016


Tirana, 1997
Grandma sits on the floor. So do Anne and granddad. I am told to sit on the floor too. Why? No one tells me why. I stay on the window, looking outside. It’s almost 6 PM and granddad has to go pick up mum from work. Someone’s throwing fireworks, but I’m not allowed to stay on the window and see them. The noise and the crowds seem to grow from underneath the block of buildings. It makes no sense. If we’re supposed to be inside before dark, why is there still a crowd outside? 7 PM. Mum called to say she has had to go back to the ministry and granddad is there with her. I have so many questions in my mind. But when granddad is not there reading the paper out loud, all I get is ‘hushhh’… I sneakily change the TV channel (Anne was listening to Bon Jovi, as if the noise from outside wasn’t enough). I finally manage to find the news channel and I’m about to pay attention, but Anne finds me and quickly ruins my only source of information. But I still managed to see the square downsta…

The prospect of loss

I saw your little sister today.     I was walking down your road in the old part of town. The cobbled path covered in magnolias where I had walked many times before, always awed by the play of sunlight and shadow on the shiny stones.     She was there, on your front step on the left side of the path, resting her back against the worn off burgundy door with the lion shaped handles.      For a moment it was just like back then, when I'd always find her there, and her friends, playing in front of your house, your mum fixing their messed up braids from time to time.     But your sister has grown now , she looks like you. Tall, blonde, dark sparkly eyes that are more beautiful than the play of light on a cobbled street, more similar to the sea at night...     Now the age that we were back then, when we dreamt big and we thought nothing would ever separate us. When we loved with our hearts open wide, because we had never loved before. We only expected our larvae state selves to …

Secret longings and open arms

He is a dot on a map. A mark. A spillage, of blue ink somewhere.
He is...
Hope of a person for existence,
The existence of something great.
He is the missing, the blue that colours the sky in nostalgic pastels.
The dark of the night falling like a black veil on a widow that was never married.
He comes like rain in June. Falling furious and cold in a hot day. Washed away. Washed away.
He's completely washed me away...

The truth about being...

The more I learn, the more I realise:
I am nothing and I am everything.
The more I look for myself, the less I find,
and the more I become who I am.

I am only what I know.
I am not you.
I am not what you know.
I do not know what you know.

You are only what you know.
You are not me.
You are not what I know.
You do not know what I know.

Therefore I cannot understand or judge you and your actions.
Nor can you understand or judge me or my actions,
for they're not me
and they're not my actions.

I am what I know.
Therefore I am time and my actions belong to it.
I am ever changing. Therefore I am not.


Oh God, if you truly exist like my grandma says, please, let me be loved for my words and thank you for not making me allergic to wine (like a poor soul I know is), for, with time, only words and wine grow better.