so-now-what?

one thing i used to be good at: forgetting.
let me see how good i can be this time.
memory is a devil..

but i don't want another myocardial infarction,
i decided i must forget more than i wished.

after all, what else is digestion than to let go
of  what is only in the way, ballast inside
creating tension and too much air?

and who would be busy remembering the texture
 and colour of his excrements after?
some, i know, they do, they keep a diary
for blood pressure, pulse, glucose, pee and shit
and what they ate and where and a notebook or a folder
with bills from daily shopping and they do accounts on all...
some even statistics...here i proudly present and so on.

i have nothing to proudly present.
even i cannot do so many things well.

sorry there may be someone else not so happy
with me trying to forget..but this time i take my space
and will be as egoistic as i can, it is necessary.

but i will try to keep some faith in life
and what it may bring to me.
more is not possible anymore.

good night, Conrad...

said and another front of the thunderstorm coming with
lightning allover the sky and thunder...
as said..the devil comes always in disguise, but he comes...

a blank page

a blank page

now, a blank page,

i wish it was me,

but then, the same

will happen:

i fill you, page,

with helpless babbling,

stammering, stuttering,

i blacken you with sadness,

tears and pointless

exclamation marks,

with questions,

words and words.

i press my lips with ink

on you, my thumb-

remember me

when you burn and fly.

i know, you will not

but that my pain and longing

will be erased in the wind

and finally go with the rain.

it is all good

as it is.

all is to wash,

to purify,

to let go,

to be born again

or not.

heavy thunderstorm outside,

blackening all outside..

July 30, 2017, 21.00 hrs

change

we always 'invest' in life, in hope, in growth,
and we will always lose:
life takes its own course
and we will die naked
as we were born

Dreams, Mark Strand

Trying to recall the plot
And characters we dreamed,
     What life was like
Before the morning came,
We are seldom satisfied,
     And even then
There is no way of knowing
If what we know is true.
     Something nameless
Hums us into sleep,
Withdraws, and leaves us in
     A place that seems
Always vaguely familiar.
Perhaps it is because
     We take the props
And fixtures of our days
With us into the dark,
     Assuring ourselves
We are still alive. And yet
Nothing here is certain;
     Landscapes merge
With one another, houses
Are never where they should be,
     Doors and windows
Sometimes open out
To other doors and windows,
     Even the person
Who seems most like ourselves
Cannot be counted on,
     For there have been
Too many times when he,
Like everything else, has done
     The unexpected.
And as the night wears on,
The dim allegory of ourselves
     Unfolds, and we
Feel dreamed by someone else,
A sleeping counterpart,
     Who gathers in
The darkness of his person
Shades of the real world.
     Nothing is clear;
We are not ever sure
If the life we live there
     Belongs to us.
Each night it is the same;
Just when we’re on the verge
     Of catching on,
A sense of our remoteness
Closes in, and the world
     So lately seen
Gradually fades from sight.
We wake to find the sleeper
     Is ourselves
And the dreamt-of is someone who did
Something we can’t quite put
     Our finger on,
But which involved a life
We are always, we feel,
     About to discover.

GUIOMAR NOVAES ,CHOPIN, Nocturne , op.70 , E minor

Valentin Silvestrov, The Lord's Prayer

Patti Smith, Dream of Life, "Dream of Life" LP

time enough, Rabindranath Tagore

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. 

Rabindranath Tagore

Schubert ,4 Impromptus, D. 935 , Op. 142 ,Maria João Pires

Madrugada ,Sail Away (with lyrics)

..'dwarfed'..i like that..makes one want to break free..of course..it happens..