Soap Bubbles of Memories

It's all coming back to me.

The scent of the trees

that warm feeling in the cold -

when I looked around,

and the scenery was a masterpiece - frozen in my mind.

A deaf moment when I can only see us together back then.

But I can't hear anything.

A scene from the past that became silent -

brought to a lonely present dance.

A present cut into pieces

that don't make sense when put together -

with recent pool parties, laughter and tears.

A far away trip, castles, wine, cheese and sunshine.

Friendly strangers killing cockroaches on the street,

a pub nearby.

Floating soap bubbles that steal my heart.

I finally hear your voice in my head - your accent.

Remember that long bus ride in the middle of the night?

My living room so empty right now,

our disgraceful song:

"boom boom boom lets go back to my room..."

How did we go from Pablo Neruda to that?

Or from dreams to reality?

Or from knowing each other the way we used to,

to almost strangers?

From infinite possibilities

to accepting life as it comes?

From being young,

and waking up old one day -

full of half stories -

of what could have been.

Moving & Enrooted

Many years later things have changed completely. Dreams left behind, some have dissolved in reality, forgotten about, or simply left in the past. I still get inspired by that 19 year old girl, falling in love with a city, with a boy, with winter in February.

So many chances ahead of them. He "rooted" in one place, with very deep roots. She - in love with the world, and its possibilities and impossibilities, a dreamer, while he had both his feet on the ground - or perhaps she didn't know him at all.

Limelight's gone. That place, that night, years behind.

Edinburgh has a new scent now, new stories have replaced theirs. When she shuts her eyes, she can't remember the trip but she can still feel it.

She wonders where the story ends. It never seems to end. It goes on whenever she closes her eyes, smells that old perfume... What's real anyway? Who can tell for sure that reality isn't what happens when we are actually dreaming? Who can tell for sure that the past is left behind forever, and the present is happening right now?

What are dreams, memories, feelings? The beginning, the end of Juliet and Daniel's story. Each and every moment, word, misunderstanding, whatever brought them together and set them apart.

The stars, the songs, vanished places, magic, theater plays, day trips, photographs that tell no story. Double deck buses and escalators frozen in time, and broken into pieces - put together again when I remember that 19 year old girl and that 17 year old boy.

Two different people nowadays, who sometimes say hello to each other.

And they know their story was two different stories. They know that for Daniel, she was a pretty girl, who inspired his poetry, whose lips he wanted to kiss, whose perfect body he wanted to touch.

For Juliet, he was a possibility of an enchanted prince on a white horse, whose love for her would last forever. It would never fade away. It was vaster than the world. The possibility of his love was the courage she took to get lost in the world, where she looks for her roots.

They lived two different stories together many, many, many years ago.

The Tears, the Fears, the Years

It comes a time when the last 10, 20 years invade your thoughts,

and make you wonder what if.

And there have been so many different ways, roads, infinite possibilities.

They make you wonder whether you were supposed to be right here, right now,

or whether you took a wrong turn on the way.

And the place where you were supposed to be couldn't be further away,

and gone forever.

You wonder if there's still time.

If one time you'll see them again, lost people in space, and they'll recognize you,

or will they pass by you as strangers,

despite them being your life a decade, perhaps two ago.

In a hundred years, none of this will matter,

or will it make all the difference?

How do you know whether you were supposed to have let them go?

How do you know whether it would have worked out if you had tried harder,

said the right things, or kept silence?

Who's writing our stories?

Right now I feel so lonely

that I hand in my pen.

Will you write it for me?

Because I just don't know.

Too many regrets, wrong turns,

hoping it will all make sense one day, fall into place.

When I can look into your eyes; recognise you.

You that came to stay (a little late),

the one that will justify the last 20 years,

the tears, the fears, the years.

December

Wine again; starry night.

Solitude all over, and she smiles to the music.

Understanding, getting close to people, building relationships

can be scary and petrifying.

But once two sets of eyes meet in the middle of the night,

and speak beyond words,

peace, warm hearts, dreamy thoughts, smiles become reality.

She just wanted to kiss his mouth;

have her eyes wide shut tonight;

fall in his arms.

The invisible hustle and bustle.

Imperceptible city lights.

Only his deep brown eyes.

His apologetic tone.

Candle lights.

It was the closest, the deepest, the most intimate she's ever felt with him.

And it felt right.

Right there they belonged.

And it felt right.

Sparkly Dancing Yellow Purple Moments

Places from years, many years ago that became other places, and other places. The stories are still there, like an afterlife chronicle. Scents, sweat, laughter, noise, music, Pablo Neruda's poetry. Not knowing what would come next is magical, sublime even.

The non so magnificent scenarios came later, with regretful scenes, mistakes that can't be undone. That is what makes me sit and write, and miss old times, while boiling rice. All too real. I close my eyes tight to the sound of boiling water and feel that place again.

A bus ride? It was a bus ride to promote a drink. They picked up young people from the streets and... we entered the dark bus with disco lights, loud music... Round and round Ipanema. Who was I with? What drink were they promoting? What made me go on that bus? When was that?

I have memories of bus rides, soap bubble parties, diving in a swimming pool with my witch costume. A floating witch hat in the middle of the night. Unreal but real, which makes my world mundane now. Is it a requirement to be young again to lose oneself in Van Gogh's starry night, in an enchanted world left behind? Where do I get a ticket to another round of sparkly dancing yellow purple moments, where it is unsafe but safe? Gone but still there.

Rocky River

A writer is born out of pain. And he seems to be constantly looking for it, so that the words flow like a "rockless" river.

Rocks are little pieces of happiness with a bit of insanity in a yellow day. They confuse the path. The water path, the tears.

Writers look for impossible love, impossible stories, a impossible world, so that they get frustrated, disappointed, and ultimately they feel sad. And a poet is born.

A writer looks for farewells, memories of what will never be again. They concentrate on the feeling that will never return. A moment lost in space forever. And a poet is born.

Writers spend every day focusing on the gray, on that day... that last dance, kiss, touch, word. The misinterpretation of the unsaid. The lonely walk back home. The rain that doesn't wet. The heartbreaking tales that never made sense.

And a poet is born from the scream inside. A fire. A tiredness. A gaze through the window. From the dark. From the silent. From the loudness. From a passing thought. From feeling hopeless, helpless. From losses and music.

Dreams that stay dreams make writers.

Floating

No wine tonight.

Soberness everywhere, yet I float.

I float to the thought of having found you.

A musical, a dream, thin rain, cars' lights, city lights.

I'm in your arms completely conscious of where I am,

whom I'm with, yet I float.

I float to the feeling I feel.

It's night, it's velvet dark, yet I see your dark eyes finding mine.

And I float to my insanity. I float.

It's rapid, slow, warm and cold.

And I float in London Bridge.

There's no music but I hear it, yet I'm sober and I float.

Our hands touch and I float, yet I'm there.

Holding your hand.

Through the night.

Floating.