Archives for category: literature

Once a piece of a mountain just cracked, a big piece mind you, and started rolling downhill. It hit and punched pounded and knocked anything and everything on its way. Schooling, marriage, expectations, you name it. As it rolled, it became rounder and rounder, vomiting little chips of rock along the way. And it became faster and faster and faster, erratic, smacking as it rolled down with such force it seemed it was the world itself that was crushing it all at once, like a hand squeezing life of an egg.

Then a roar, then a giant loud crack and it finally stopped. Larger pieces fell into the sea, the smaller ones just went missing. There, the waves drowned it in salt, sculpted it with kisses and scattered it across the ocean.


What is in the mind that sees what the eye does or does not? Yesterday feels like falling of a horse, the broken rib, the soiled clothes, the taste of complete failure. But my mind is not sure anymore and no matter how much I ask for the help of the memory of others, I still fail miserably. Didn’t I see twenty? It was surely in the bag’s side pocket, wasn’t it? How can rest my head on my pillow, as usually put, if innocence might have been tarnished with what my mind saw? Deep down, I don’t want to be wrong. I caused alarm, created a fuss, why wouldn’t I? being the kind of person that does this as always, generating unbalance, the wrong kind of attention, carelessly damaging friendships and other relations. If something is to be revealed as dream during the night, how can you trust it? The scene, returned, it is definitely not the same, and it will surely be biased, what the mind saw again and again. I definitely made that phone call to my mom and she commanded, as mothers do, to either admit it and apologize or shut up, as nicely as she could this time. Maybe the new therapist is working. Whether doing it or succumbing to silence, this will haunt me like the times I caved in face of neediness, coughed without covering my mouth and many, many other times. You don’t even have to look closely and long enough to see the damage. All you have to do is disappoint once, and sulking, or silence, or withdrawals ensue. I hold all the questions while not having many answers. Did it happen or not? Am I being unfair? Can one ever cope with a life that is unsolved?

How do you know if what you are writing is poetry or just random randomness? Some poetry does not speak to my sensibility as such (quite often, actually, I’m afraid), so I am sure what I write does not sound as real poetry to others also.

How can you tell? I am asking to learn more about it from a reader’s perspective, not an academic one.

Thanks in advance 🙂


Roughly translating: “Suddenly, a little window opens unexpectedly in a soul, we peek into it, even without wanting to, and what we see surprises us, giving us a different view of this being. How can one “judge” (paranoid verb which should be replaced by “understand”, more Christian) a man by the façade of the “house of his being”, or by words that he pronounces in the everyday imperfect language of men? I remembered when an old horseman told me one day: “Look, young man, nobody is what they seem. Not even God”.

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