Magnetism

It took me a while to understand. Those things love to come poke my head in various ways. Delightfully visual, colorful, almost surrealist, and ambiguous. Last time my alternate universe was contracted in a squared room with dark brown-sugar wooden floor. Impeccably waxed. Maybe that was why two white seals defy gravity to live comfortably on magnetic board on the wall. Refugees from the north pole maybe. More likely, the magnetic north pole. It is all about magnetism after all. And I felt it. You, your naked back and waved hair, your hand. We seemed to run out of that squared room, run from people and waxed floors… then I woke up. That morning draped itself in simple words; we touch each other’s lips with our fingers, each other’s neck, and trachea. I can still see, frame by frame, your uncovered blade bone, your shoulder, but my senses cannot remember your touch, neither the texture of your skin. We touch various things having abstract names, but what I cannot touch in either way yet is me. And is you.

Photo: http://ntikhomirov.500px.com/

Personal Geography

I have borne these words in my mind for months. They were somehow inhabiting my synaptic defined space, and erratically emerge to grab various senses. There was no algorithm of such encounters other than spikes of emotions. Or, at least, that was what I thought. Unexpectedly, the trigger was a name. My secret name was written on a wall and I have seen it. For a split second. With neat and sharp line, elegant in particular way, indulging a wonderful asymmetry. “This is me”, I thought and I felt it was that hidden me I longed for so much to meet. I moved to New York with two suitcases and a goal to make ten thousand photos. So insanely courageous indeed. There might be a precise New York for everyone located somewhere within the inner personal geography. What if, somehow I would find that necessary and sufficient strength to say…that’s enough lack of horizon for one life. What if, after seeing the image of me there, I knew where my New York was? Even though I cannot say who I am but go for it and speak as if I knew it. Time is half of the story. My New York is fragile and under the radar, unidentifiably gorgeous and strange. I am still running around in circles, hunting down, putting on the right scent with bow and arrows. What I could do for now is just lay down in shadow and listen. Then I will go on writing till I drop & hoping that one day or one night you can read my words beyond my caring.

Photo: http://www.babel-voyages.com/mini/1000m600/photos/source/the_temple_of_transition_morning_light_breaking_th.jpg