Choices

People make choices every second. How tiring it is to watch them fight the flow of life. We get to crossroads and we feel we have to choose on of the roads. We could just close our eyes and feel our way through. But we don’t. We think and analyze, we take few steps one way, we think again, we go back to the crossroads, we talk to other people who are there in the same time with us. Sometimes, we create a committee. We can think more and analyze better like that. We will utilize all of our resources to think. We don’t feel. No, we want to make the best LOGICAL choice. People who allow themselves to feel are flakes. We are serious. We think.

We choose. We go on and it doesn’t feel right. So, instead of turning back and trying to get to the other road as soon as we can, while we still know the way back, we keep going. We keep going on the wrong road and we think. We think of all the way we can make this road be the good road. We also analyze our original thinking, so we can understand where the mistake was, so we can learn and never repeat it. Never. We look around and we ask our road companions: “How are you? Are you happy with your choice?” They lie and say: “Yes”. To recognize their mistake would make the look week. So you go on and think and rationalize yourself out of the pain of knowing you made a mistake.

When you get to another crossroad you are relieved and start the thinking process knowing that you have learned from your previous choice. Now we are not going to get it wrong. We’ve already been here. We are older and wiser, now we know to make choices. We still don’t feel, that’s still not smart! We think some more. By now we are tired, but we just know we have to make the right choice. A voice tells us: “This doesn’t FEEL good.” We run away in panic because we are not supposed to feel. Think. Think. Think.

This was a close one…

No Title?

What should I write?
Blue on yellow. Trees in front of houses. The sound of a baby sleeping.

I write to feel. I write to live. Now I’ll write for titles…
The title of my perfect poem will be:
The man on the moon that never faded
Or
Flying through the sea of sorrow on my way to the end
Or
Blue and red on a yellow field, before anyone thought of green

Yes. I like that.
Too bad I haven’t written the poem yet…

Luck

How do you define “luck” especially when you don’t know if it exists? If “luck” would be a stone, what shape would it have? What color? Would be small or big, shiny or rough? If “luck” would be a leaf, would be green, or red? Would be long and thin, or heavy and thick? What if “luck” can hear you? What would you say?

My “luck” is a horse. A beautiful, black stallion. He has a shiny, long mane, he lives in the mountains, and he talks. He only talks to me, of course, so please don’t try to talk to him. You probably won’t even see him anyway… He comes when I call him and he looks at me with those big, dark eyes. I lay on him and become one with the passion of the horse. He runs and the wind blows all over my face. He keeps me safe, he brings me up, he gives me strength and then, he brings me back. He jumps on his back legs, turns around and leaves. Till next time.

I go back home and dream of my lucky, black stallion. He is really not mine, is he?

Books

I grew up amongst books. They were always alive for me. They helped me sleep, they helped cry and they helped me be. I remember my old town during cold, heavy winter nights… The town was asleep and I was reading stories out laud. It smelled like snow, tea and fresh bread. It smelled like the love of my grandparents and it felt incredibly safe in the cold house with thick stone walls. The darkness was surrounding us, but the snow was light… I was sitting by the stove reading “Alone in the world” by Hector Malot.

Remy, the hero of my childhood. The orphan boy who travelled France together with an artist ambulant. The orphan who lived a harder life than me, the boy who didn’t have the love I had, but who found his mother and a love that I didn’t know. I read that book at least 50 times. I cried and laughed and felt incredibly lucky. It could have been worse. I could have been Remy…

Then, there were “The three musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas. Oh, I remember I was in love with Athos. Everyone I knew loved d’Artagnan, but I was always Athos. The older one, the mature one, the serious and the sad, but the one that was always there. The unselfish one. The one that kept the pain hidden deep inside a smile, the one that kept feeling undeserving of happiness.

And then, there were hundreds of other books, poetry, fiction, biography, historical novel, and motivational books, books that cried with me, books that I kept hidden, books that I carried with me everywhere I went, serious books, and even few funny ones. I have always gone back to Remy and Athos, though. They are me…