I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.
What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.
My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.
Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.
Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.
Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.
Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.
Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.
My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?
I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
This poem is my way of catching a moment when something that once felt real and meaningful slowly turns into just a shadow, a projection, an illusion. I wanted to show how reality can sometimes feel surreal, and how easy it is to mistake a reflection for the real thing, like in Plato’s cave. We often fall for false impressions. The image of the hand’s shadow on the wall becoming a barking dog or a disappearing rabbit is my way of speaking about disappointment and coming to terms with what happened.
For me, every poem is also like a diary, a way of keeping things I do not want, or maybe cannot, forget. I try to leave space for different interpretations, but what matters most to me always stays hidden underneath. To me, the hand in the poem has already become a shadow. And somehow, even if it makes no sense, the shadow still casts another one. It feels like a game of broken telephone with consciousness. Scattered pieces only make sense to me as a whole.
