A City

They run down the saturated array of street bumps which connect both ends of this underpopulated place.

When it rains here, it pours and the area keeps herself clean with fluffy bubbles of scent, hygiene and water running down through every suburb, curve and corner – even through the darkest little hideout…purifying and preparing all her inhabitants for the new days and experiences, tornadoes and often times ; leaping earthquakes that resemble a wave leaping carelessly on some quiet shore.

It is also important to mention that although not many live in this space, there are landmarks all over… Starting with the varying length of naturally sprouting silk at the peak of the north point where scents and many of Them get lost, tangled, drowned in perfume and then get found again. Continuing south They take four steps down to the valley just before the steep hill which separates the clearest or darkest pair of wells placed so skillfully and perfectly. At night the wells are covered by tiny skins and in that instant (it is known to all ) the entire place rests peacefully (for the most part).

Next They take an intensely fulfilling and nervous walk to the Source of Sound and laughter and lies. This place is right under the steep hill which separates the wells and admittedly They cannot help but return to it, over and over and over. This pair of cushioned, pink happiness once in functionality is the attraction and the destruction of good and bad. It is curious though that this source often pairs with another pair which usually indicates the coming of an earthquake as described previously. One boat entering the Source, another following… exiting  and enclosing of source over source… the inconsistent flow of long then short breezes of hot and then cold air… the sudden movements that infect every single nook, spot and string of satin.

Following the curving hills and roads leading further south They wrap themselves around the air system, the connection between North and the rest. Here they feel the little pounds of life, they revel in the most unique aroma, it is here that every area’s aroma differs… not ever to be replicated. Other wells run quickly to this place and rest their north between this north and the rest.

Ever on southward, They pause at the Prayer Points… Rounded tents where Their Owners usually make them gather and surround then connect and shape around the Points in the manner of a praying apostle. They walk in circles first at the core… later at the points of the Points where tiny earthquakes or rather – earth shakes are provoked.

Inspired by the now trembling quest, they take a swift jog past the soft desert, jumping over the miniature pit fall… only to halt and slowly, gently search the outskirts of the Silver Moondrip. The Silver Moondrip it is said, creates happiness, longing and most importantly it gives life… not to those already living but new life, unique and uncertain life. They adore the outskirts as a sign of respect, They do not rush to enter the Moondrip, but first They revel on the outskirts taking in every sensation and texture before finally heading in.

Writers are not to describe the Moondrip, so as a respectful writer I will only say, that no life would be complete or would exist without it. The place of the ultimate and yet the place of nothingness. Dark and daunting as beautiful and sacred as it may be.



Well those are not to be forgotten… long and sturdy as they are, the point of strength… the show of weakness at the sight of another city, when they fold and give in…

Hands – ‘Their Owners’

Fingers – They

Eyes – the two wells shinning brightly or clouded in anger and pain or apathy.

EyeBrows, decorating the wells and providing a distraction on an animated face to keep from a recognition of what is hidden behind the wells.

Eyelids – the skins that close at night to symbolize rest.

Ears – the givers of life as are our lungs and the Steep Hill separating the wells which is our nose.

Neck – the breath, the connection… the spot of intimacy when the first kiss (or pairing of source with source) is delivered.

Collar bone… arms …tummy… palms… worlds within a city within millions of sensations that we bury, deep down in the fear of what other cities might think if we decided to feel all of what our worlds are capable of feeling.

This galaxy better known as a Woman is not merely a walking child-birth machine, made for man’s convenience in releasing hormones and being pleasured. A woman IS pleasure, she IS pain, she IS beauty and everything we can and cannot describe in words… skillfully crafted and fitted into one frame like an artwork that needs not be questioned, only respected, appreciated understood and loved.

Their eternal weakness!

P.S. I love Iva

There is no other love… No other love that compares in difficulty and importance. I’ve always struggled with that one – love thyself.

Spent the day watching romantic films with the family… I cried a little, and once they were done I was angry at the world for making up such beautiful stories. I like being cynical when it comes to love. I enjoy not believing in happy endings. I love to laugh at people who voice their dreams, but that still doesn’t mean that I don’t want that kind of thing for myself.

Getting home lead me to that place again where nothing is great and loneliness creeps in through the back window to steal away all the hopes and dreams that have kept me driven… I decided not to give into it this time though so I got up, dusted myself off and took off into the night. I loved the darkness broken only by the scattered patterns of street lamps… The smell of rain just before it starts pouring down… The music…

The film industry in my head meanwhile, decided to replay every romantic moment I’ve ever had throughout my life… One by one, they returned like the familiar scent of stew on sunday evenings or the fire in the fireplace in winter.

It started off as a distant image of two people… Where one face changed while the other remained the same… Scenery changed, weather and circumstance… But there we were – myself with the very few women I’ve actually loved… I got to see them from a third person’s perspective… The light touch on the cheek, the soft kiss on the forehead… The drawing of shapes in the sky with stars… The arms wrapped securely around a figure who later on turned out to be fake and unfaithful, ungrateful … I looked at the changing bodies, the faces I once adored to the point of madness and they meant absolutely nothing. I felt nothing … I just focused more on the one face, the one that remained constant.

I saw how her cordless language, her honesty in a stroke of their hair, her love in a whisper, her totality in submission I a look of their eyes, her ancestral niche for domination whilst taking the lead in the playful hours while everyone else sleeps.

I saw her and I grew to love her like I would love another.

Is that weird?