Berlin Underground

UBahn

It’s 3.19 am. Berlin time. I am dancing in the underground. Sweet violin plays the strings of my heart. Ride of the Valkyries. My soul in question.

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Love is

Lovers

I am passing through countries, discarding them like forgotten lovers. Now when I think about love, I have many more things to say. I think love is a vulnerability, a willingness to trust someone with a precious heart. To be so child-like and joyous that dancing and singing is a natural state. A heightened awareness of the beloved. A look, a tiny movement, a sigh, a tremor, a breath, a heartbeat, these are the signs that reveal the inner state. But love passes, in the same way that that cities fade into the distance as I travel across Europe. That is what you tell me. And so, I continue my journey.

‘Take your joy and spread it across the world, he wrote.

At least begin with a smile and hug yourself, she thought.’

Vaporous perfection

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Clouds, so impermanent, advise her that reality is a mere dream. The illusion of solidity in their shape and comforting forms is exactly that, illusion, disappearing as temperature changes, wind blows or night extinguishes day. Why would a cloud be other than this? I marvel at such simplicity. I will endeavour to leave clouds to their journey, not fall in love with them in any other way than to share their pleasure of being vaporous perfection.

Budapest Blues

budapest

It’s Sunday and I’m in the most beautiful city in the world.

Cigarette butts crushed into broken tiles.

At my feet is another death, in the street,

Broken buildings and hollow dreams.

I’m in her arms like a stillborn child.

Feeling nothing, it seems,

But old.

Weather Report

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It is Minus 11 in Berlin.

Heart rate slow.

Breath freezing.

It’s Minus 12 in Berlin.

Heart is warming.

Breath responding.

I think of the Life, Death, Rebirth cycle.

Again and again and again.

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Thank you Clarissa Pinkola Estés.

 

 

 

Missing

Trees

Sometimes I just miss people. I want to hold them in my arms and feel their heart beat. I want to look into their souls. Share stories. Linger in all the delicious ways. This isn’t lust. There are many ways to be in the world. Lust has its place. But the kind of desire I speak of is a love so deep that it may only last a second yet find perfection. The willingness to be absolutely present. This is not a contradiction. The longing is a sweetness, something that poetry holds hands with and prose takes a long walk through aimless streets.

Shattered Silence

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There is nothing here but this piano and an odd odour left by the past inhabitants. I have escaped from my prison and I play like a mad woman. Silence shatters on solid floor. Light breaks on fragile skin. I am ready to penetrate the abyss and enter your world. It matters not if this is present, future or past.