I’ve been in the business of
one night stands for a while now.
It involves me being on my own,
alone in a room,
naked
of all my fears and uncertainties.

I usually feel ashamed in the morning
and can't find the door quickly enough
to leave behind this safe place
and get back to the war zone that
my heart seems to be.

You always said you believed in people,
even though they didn't always had faith in you.

You also said that your brain
does not believe in a primordial God  
but that your heart does.
It was always a matter of proximity,
with the brain being closer to the mouth and
pushing all of its messages..
the right messages.

You said that you weren't convinced by
the making of the cross sign
because it started with the brain
and ended with the heart -
people always remember the last part and never the beginning
you said.

But I knew you had it in you - the words
in the prayers you mumbled on the metro,
hoping that no suicide bomber went in the same direction,
in that moment,
helped you have a pleasant journey.
Yeah, I heard you.
It convinced me to not push the button.

the words came from the heart and,
by the time you got to the end of it,
your brain would have no other choice but to surrender.

Another victory.
Another loss. You pick.

May your non God not bless the non believers.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iGxoJnygW8]

There are no more secrets in this world.

Everybody knows everything about everybody.

Just today
13 people
from my social bubble were
LIVE on Facebook;
One of them was taking a ****
and reading Coelho while at it.

Everyone is LIVE now,
forgetting to be ALIVE for once in a while.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsbTKjzp-4A]

Let's NOT forget how fragile we are,
with all our fears and problems,
staring at a delicate image of us,
while others gaze at the sky.

we used to leave our homes thinking
that we’re going to change the world,
but all we do now is close the door behind us
thinking that we’re going to change two metros and three buses on our way
to work.

Fake fears.
False problems.
Unreal image.
The only thing that’s fragile in the room is the mirror.

our vulnerability is one of our main strengths,
our ugliness is, actually, the beauty that others seek for,
our “shower/grower”, “pear/apple”, “spit/swallow”, “oral/normal” abilities are not on anyone’s interest list,
other than the one made-up in our head

stress creates distress.

Let’s NOW forget how fragile we are and start living a little!

Here’s to all the people that photobomb my holiday pictures,
unsuspecting exhibitionists in my summer memories.
After a while, I become fonder of them than of the places I’ve visited.
They now seem to know me better than most of my friends and relatives,
we start sharing secrets and unspeakable thoughts,
we become connected by an invisible red line,
that passes through all the virtual mess
and intimate celluloid of our afterlife.

I’m sure that somewhere,
in Russia,
or maybe in the Czech Republic,
there’s some poor *** schmuck that’s working up the nerve
to ask me out for a drink
or for some pasta,
not caring that I’m rushing through his photo,
on my way to a public restroom,
or a bar that serves all you can eat, drink and love.

The photos holding the proof of my existence in a certain moment
are facing the ground,
while their owners rehearse their speech
in front of the mirror,
leaving me and all the other tourists through life
behind the black hole library shelf,
in perfect equilibrium,
not knowing if I’m coming or leaving -
an impersonal group of pixels and dots, on a white piece of character.

Here’s to all the strangers in my heart!
Here’s to all the hearts to whom I’m a stranger!

I am a simple man –
I still enjoy the lost art of
washing your hands before and after
using the bathroom,
I find courage in the occasionally tap on the back,
when everything goes dark,
and the back alley looks like a modern piece of art.
I try not to live the same day over and over again, but,
somehow, I end up making the same mistakes,
closing all the doors that are left open
for me.
I’m never early to a party.
I’m never late, either. I just don’t get invited anymore.
When I was little, I was mesmerized
by the choir of voices in my head –
now I’m just irritated by their meaningless noise.
The 4 rooms seem smaller and things are moving like crazy –
it’s like an earthquake inside this heart of mine
that’s behaving from time to time
like a lady with high heels and low standards.

I am a simple man –
I manage to complicate everything
in the simplest way.

my face is like an open book and
everyone knows exactly where the last person left off.
there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors. no.
all the words and feelings are out there,
on the page and they start screaming at the first contact with the outside world.

I have no covers,
no pdf format,
no index,
no once in a lifetime offer you can’t miss.

I only come with a story, that
some people enjoy reading,
that others hate (and
decide to wait for the movie).
the main character is a guy that’s neither good nor bad,
that lives inside a human head,
but always gets beaten around by a human heart.

I’m curious about that specific moment when
it was decided that we love with our heart
and not with our brain, or leg, or knee.

you may be the main thing in the menu at one point,
the hottest dish in the restaurant
but you know that
you’ll always gonna be someone else’s sloppy seconds.

today, a kid on the metro asked me
why do we keep saying „may God save us”?
when really, it’s up to us to save HIM?
I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know how to explain to him that
sometimes I’m afraid to believe
in something that doesn’t feel like belief worthy..
that I don’t understand how certain things happen..
that I can hardly save a WORD file after a day’s work,
and he’s proposing me to save S̶A̶N̶T̶A̶ .. GOD.
I didn't have the means to lie, to be wise, to be strong..
I couldn’t let go of the iron bar and my smile had no teeth to show, no lips to uncover.

but I guess he knew all of that.
my face is like an open book. not the holy one!
with me there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors.
no..

I get behind the wheel
of the fastest car
there is,
but only
drive it up to 40 -
that's kind
of like
the perfect metaphor
for my life
right now..

It’s one of those nights…

You end up lying in your bed,
making eye contact with the ceiling,
random feelings running through your mind.
You’re thinking that they can easily be part of a great poem –
one that you’ve always wanted to write,
one that will make you proud – probably the only REAL poem that you’ll be able to write in your life.

You start to get cold.
You get up and fetch an extra blanket. And some thicker pajamas.
You get all curled up in your attempt to fall asleep.
You are still cold.
Maybe you’re dying!?!

You take your phone and google sudden death symptoms
Chest Pain.
Breathlessness.
Palpitations.
Dizziness.
Fainting.
Nothing about being cold.
Maybe you’re finally becoming an adult and you’re transforming into this cold blood grown-up that doesn’t give a **** about anything
anyone has to say.
Yeah! That must be it!

You turn and turn and turn
and end up on your stomach,
smothering an old pillow under your right arm and
your inability to become someone under the other one.
Sleep refuses to penetrate you,
even though you’ve clearly sent him signals across the table all night long.
You even laughed at all his jokes,
you touched his knee,
you’ve certainly made yourself available to him!
Nothing!
You get blue dreams.
Huge, round, wide awake dreams,
Filled up with testosterone and lust.

It’s 3.34 AM.
At this point, you’re in the bathroom,
Eating up the latest Ikea catalogue.
Tomorrow, you will wake up alone in your head,
like a polaroid picture that gets stuck inside the big camera –
you will wake up without falling asleep.
Tomorrow is today.

You get in the shrink’s office without knocking.
What’s wrong? he says.
You don’t answer.
He looks at the quiet version of you for an entire hour
and comes up with a diagnostic for your problem.
He even writes it down so you wouldn’t forget:
Dream Paralysis - Powerlessness of imagining true life. Impossibility of living fake dreams every day.
Am I right?
You don’t answer.

He isn’t right.
You aren’t alright.

You pay up and go.
Poker would have been fairer for you at this point.
***** it!

You get back home.
You’re tired of trying to fall asleep so you decide to climb.
You’ll try to get on top of your dreams
and sleep won’t try to ******* in any other position!

Tonight’s gonna be one of those nights...
This is gonna be one of those poems.

mistakes were made,
and things were said,
and none of us knew how to love life properly.

we used to say that we're unhappy
and that we tried and tried and tried
but lied.
that we did our best to change our state of misery,
to become better people for the people in our homes,
but we know now that wasn't true.

I never grabbed your arm while sinking in my dreams,
I never screamed while I was awake, but only in my sleep,
I was in pain my entire life. I never knew how to handle pain.
I never called it out. I carried it with me. the pain was sharp.
I wasn't. my edges got torn. there were fingerprints all over my face and body. my house was left empty. clean. not a soul inside. not a tear. I always dreamt of drowning. the sea was dreaming of dying inside me, being hyper ventilated. being choked with air and dryness.

you never told me that I was draining all the joy from your life
you never brought wine, nor cookies, nor take-away.
the only thing you carried around in a doggie bag, after a dinner out at the restaurant, was you soul. or, what was left of it after
both of us fed from it.
you never cried in your sleep, but only while you were awake,
you tried to warn me you were thunder, but I never got to hear the end of your words.
you never left,
you never came,
you were always in my heart.

we didn't make each other unhappier,
but we didn't manage to do it the other way, either.

we were never sorry. we never got to regret the ride.
we were in this together. all in. all ice.
we are the ones that cannot be forgiven,
we are the east and the west,
the Nile and the Amazon, each on his own continent,
together on our own Earth,
none of us in danger of ever becoming wadi,

we were music.
beautiful classical music that sounds great on its own
but is awful if you play it all at once..
if you push through the speakers with Bach,
add up Vivaldi, then Brahms, then Debussy, then throw in a little bit of Grieg, then Enescu, then salt things up with Puccini and, to spice things up, add just a pinch of Kennedy.

what happens to people like us?
the same thing that happens when people like us. we get lost.
in a room full of people, we become invisible
- like air.
the only thing that proves that we still exist
is all the dust
that travels through us.
we never liked them parties,
we never really wanted to be there,
yet we kept coming back, hoping
to get it right this time.
wishing to be a little more wiser this time around,
wearing our best clothes and
the lowest self-esteem.

we are just so ******* happy to be alive.
sorry. what I meant to say was
"we are just so ******* less unhappy to be alive!"

things were made,
and mistakes were said,
and none of us knew how to live love properly.

It doesn't hurt.

It doesn't feel good either.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUCyjDOlnPU

It all suddenly felt right.
I could run,
and cry,
and say yes,
and everything was an animated representation of reality -
just like Family Guy.