It is found within the drive and the motivation; the strength and the precision; the focus and the forethought.

When I was seven years old, I used to walk to my ballet lessons every week. I would vary the journey a little every time in order to see new purplish/pink flowers blooming on those little cacti (they would grow and create such beautiful formations along the irregular inclines of the Israeli town) or to venture down new unfamiliar slopes. Yet, still, I always kept to certain favorite corners. As a child, I believed it to be so romantic to find a ‘new’ place, undiscovered territory, and my own secrets. I truly believe that the fundamental human traits of individuals do not change with time. I have not grown past the desires of my youth. In fact, it is at that stage when most inner wishes are developed, I think. It was a significant number of years later that I grew to know myself better. To learn that which is so deeply engrained in us is simply a matter of realization and outlook. I miss certain aspect of myself – I feel as though I have neglected and pushed aside fundamentally critical parts of me.

A mystery, an enigma, a riddle, a game… my thoughts and observations are the precious aspects of my life that are, for the most part, not shared. They remain to be my dearest secrets. It is not as though my sentiments about the unique drops of the rain, the hue of the sky, the thickness of the air, or the body lying next to mine, can be of any interest (nor will any of it/can any of it be fully comprehended by another.)

This is not a conclusion, these are simply words.

"…all was smooth with a smoothness and firm roundness pressing and a long warm coolness, cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happy-making, young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, chest-aching, tight held loneliness…"

Hemingway is such a beautiful writer.

I remember reading For Whom the Bell Tolls quite a few years ago, it was a masterful work, but most of all, this stayed with me. It is such an exquisite description of lovemaking – so tender and real.

The Bamboo Mat

I cannot bear to put away the bamboo sleeping mat;

The night I brought you home I watched you roll it out.

{by Xuan Chen}

Glimpses into the beauty of the world
unconventionally realized
through
placid blueness
serene evenings
alone

I refuse to recite soliloquies,
and I have found out much, too much
I know of
the knowing
and the thoughts
I know of the decisions
I see the mindless waters;
Seas


I found this somewhere and really enjoyed it:

On that day, she will leave me for someone with a beret and cigarettes who will treat her badly and quote poetry at her in other languages.

I do not know about the leaving, though it seems likely; and I dislike the beret, but I do wait for the poetry. In truth, on a someone, the cigarettes are addictive and the other - the maltreatment - makes it simpler; gives my mind some freedom.

I have no words for the words that you wrote on the walls of the shadows

there are a myriad of things so painful
that beautiful tears
just don't seem to be enough

Destiny waits by the beach
for your soul

you have forgotten the key
and I could gaze into your eyes for hours but I will never get in

I could never
bring them to my place
I never knew how
and when I will want you here
still, I will not know
how will you come here with me?
how will we walk through the orchid garden?
how will we take in the sparse air
of this mountain

if I fall into it without a second glance
who will be there to pick up the pieces?
who will be there to remember,
when I shall choose to forget?
it is the hardest with those...
those for whom
you will never be first
you will never be the light
you will never really matter
and I will always be fleeing
because they are inevitably the ones that will cause the pain
and I play with dull knives because I know the sharp one will cut deeper
but it is with the dull knives that the worst and permanent damage will be inflicted

she is doing this to herself
it will hurt. it will sting
an addiction
this is my fear
this
the reason I run
she keeps reading
an injection of pain
and I know
because I too am reading
yet, it is not the same
it will slowly come upon
sting so bitterly
to be filled and be so empty
simultaneously
with fear
and tears
I know they flow
endlessly flow
I shall run from this
where is there to run to?
And it is complicated
And it is empty
And I don’t want to know
And I don’t want to feel
And it pains me to see
A subjection
So blatant
To eminent pain

cowardice
simple weak self-preservation
on his behalf
it is a lack of concern and
it is hypocrisy and pretending
and the fact, in itself, that the capability for such deep emotion is there
but being so horribly underutilized and misused is the most damaging of all

A warning is not enough
and an addict would know
and an addict would see
and even! an addict
most especially this one
Should feel it
Should know it
Must stop it

Oh
the girl ran across the burning sand
without a care
towards the open sea
on a deserted beach
on an unknown island
perhaps in the Pacific
more likely in the vicinity of the Aegean or Mediterranean seas

Eye lids slowly shutting as I sit and
early hours of the day roll forth while
thoughts keep me from sleep
Familiar green eyes reflect back at me
evoking a beseeching gaze
I cannot explain
How I wish I knew

notes unable to reach the desired melody playing across my mind

It seems,
lately,
nothing seems to reach

and when I know
will I know?
it is impossible
for a moment
for the time
this time

The deep azure evening spread out before me

bare

I needed that one last time
self concerned
gratification
sadistic pleasures
I still feel it
the sweat was so sweet


too many questions
too many secrets
my mind is swarming with thoughts

I wait for the expected and allegorical climax

It was my nineteenth summer, and I knew I was alone