Origin of Thoughts

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep.   I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write.   My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read: She   bla...

As long as you live, may you always remember that you were never born to love, rather you were born to save yourself. We are not capable of affection even if we think we are, because what sustains us is the belief that we, as humans are never complete, and in the back of our minds we never wish to be, but it’s surprising how easily we assume that someone can complete us.  We’re spread across all of the island, some on the cliffs, others on the shore. Sometimes we wish to catch, other times, fall.  But we can never love.  When we think we love someone we are simply tempted, that we are able to accept their differences, and we hope that they do the same for us. We connect because we suffer or we have suffered, we connect through the similar miseries and sorrows.  But no, we can never love.  Affection is misery. It is a surrender. But in its completeness, affection is non-existent.  But affection, in its own true n...

The Person Behind This Person Dear Friend, I'm trying to be myself. I'm not yet there. Over the years I have looked at this body, these words, these possibilities, through other's eyes. Mirrors cannot penetrate deep into my soul and show me the real me, and neither can you. You have yourself to take care of first. I am a mere creature, whose body is relaxed peacefully on this chair, but whose soul has been aimlessly wandering through the streets of this city for years, hoping, that maybe today it would find its true identity. I wonder how I am. I have not met with myself, someday, though, I will. I will meet myself lost in time, sometimes looking for scissors to chop off my rough edges, other times sharpening my soul. I will meet myself, grab shoulders, shake myself up and look straight into my own eyes. I want to see me. How am I? Why do I never get tired of this question? Why do I always want to hear from people about how I am even if I know their answers? W...

Break to dust Do you like being lost? Everyday I see your nest getting thicker and your wings growing smaller. I see your sleep less peaceful, eyes more guilty. I see you, more amused by others than by yourself. I see you, looking at yourself more closely at the mirror, wondering what is wrong with you.   Everything is. You aren't a human. You have yet to become one. Why do you keep searching for your home? Why do you want find someone else's touch on your skin? Why do you want someone else's eyes to see your own self? Why do you try to find your essence in someone else's lips? Why do you feel incomplete when you aren't even a whole? You have no home, love. You are meant to be lost. You're meant to be pushed, pulled, loved, crushed, broken and built. Because in all of these highs and lows, you will find your horizon. We are but scattered pieces of a single energy. It's up to us, whether we pull ourselves together to find ourselves, or we le...