I haven't made enough mistakes
for I have never missed a class.
Today, I'm reaping the reward -
I failed the most important test.
I thought I learned,
but I'm a fool, and
barely now I understand,
that all this time
I built and ruled
a tiny castle made of sand.
Mistakes...
If I had had some more,
I'd save us both all both
from grief and gore...
Why do I cry when it rains?
Maybe I'm hiding my pain?
I don't want the world to know
about the mistakes I have made.
It hurts me so much that
I'm bleeding inside...
The universe knows
and cries by my side...
(previously unpublished)
Having harvested some knowledge in this field, I think it is time for me to share my wisdom and tell you what I discovered. My entire experience has been distilled into a simple bulleted list. Note that this information is very very valuable, handle it with care and do not use it for any unethical purpose.
Power is nothing without control. You've been warned.
It's time for an experiment - this time it is about turning a right-handed person into an ambidextrous one, but with a twist (tm).
My inability to use the left hand efficiently becomes evident in the context of a badminton deathmatch*; when the right hand is tired you either start making mistakes, or you hold the racket with both hands trying to use the power of the left hand and the coordination of the right one. Either way - you will continue losing energy and the opponent will most likely defeat you.
* my flavour of badminton is different from the norm - tennis rackets instead of badminton ones (they are much heavier and bigger), the shuttlecock is reinforced with a metallic screw embedded in its head (this way it flies faster, higher and farther).
If you investigate this matter, you will sooner or later bump into stories that explain how the brain works, how its left side controls your right hand and its right side controls your left hand. You conclude that your left hand is not very skilled because your right cerebral hemisphere needs more exercise. Is that all?
It is a pity that I write
only when skies turn dark in hue,
that only sadness makes it out
as crawling ink on paper-blue.
When I'm with you, thoughts fly away,
not grief nor cold can shade my day.
You make me shine, I forget pain
and writing too...
(previously unpublished)
There was a time,
when life
was measured in time
between "now"
and the weekend…
When I would get up
in the morning, feeling
already weakened...
Counting the days
to the moment that
I find the piece
that would bring me peace...
***
Lo and behold!
The solution is here!
I'm happy and cheerful,
but what do I hear?
***
I sense someone's voice
whisper into my ear:
"It will stop making sense,
after a year".
Now I have nothing
to measure,
that time is back,
except the feeling,
that someone is behind my back.
How am I supposed
to live one more day?
When you, and your warmth
are somewhere away...
When objects around me
and things that I do,
just keep on reminding -
how much I miss you...
I have to survive,
I have to get through!
Remember, my heart
is beating for you.
(previously unpublished)
If I were a Roman or a Greek, I'd probably laugh my head off every time I encountered a "fancy" word. The meaning of such a word is quite obvious if you can parse it and see the words "underneath" it. Once you can do that, many words become trivial: "the country between two rivers", "knowledge about life", "love of knowledge", "right-handed on both sides", etc.
The examples above are most likely known to you, so here is something new.
Și tu vrei să afli cine e Lupul sur sau Scufița roșie?
Probabil că nu are frați sau surori, pentru că a plecat în vacanță doar cu părinții și cu Valera.
Niciodată n-am avut coşmaruri,
şi-n vis zburam, păşeam pe nori...
Dar într-o zi de primăvară,
am învăţat cum e să ai fiori.
Pleoape grele dimineaţa
ca o ancoră m-au legat,
nu pot să mişc un ochi, o mână,
şi gândul e încătuşat.
Cu ciob de sticlă-i presurată,
podeaua moale de cândva,
păşesc încet, scrâşnindu-mi dinţii...
Nici pe Jupiter nu-i aşa!
Afară e o junglă densă,
sau poate e un labirint?
De cicatrici e plin asfaltul,
iar aerul e ruginit.
Suflarea-mi taie ca o lamă,
al teiului intens miros.
El mă sufocă şi mă strânge,
plămânii mi se-ntorc pe dos...
Cu limbi de foc se umple cerul,
privesc al soarelui apus -
mă doare, arde şi retina-mi,
dar nu găsesc un loc de-ascuns...
Eu fug de lume şi de mine,
în cuşcă intru sângerând.
Răpus, mă-ntorc din nou în vis,
eter în mână încălzind.