As the Night Approached

The heat was blistering; the sun was opposite his face and seemed as if it was a stone’s throw away. He needed a drop, though surely it could do no good to his parched skin and insatiable thirst.
He could still hear the blasts and rattles in the distance, apparently in the distance.
Devoid of other senses he was. Once he had made some vain efforts to move his body but it was as if a curse had stuck him to the dust beneath him.
Just a peak of a mountain was discernable since he couldn’t even turn his face. The mountain and the sky had turned into darkness for the intense dazzling light of the sun which was constantly making him break into cold sweat.
Once his endeavor to utter a yell was stifled by the scream of a missile, which crossed his sight towards that mountain.
Despite the heat that had bothered him, now the cold was overpowering him. He was soaked with sweat and everything was getting darker.
Remembering the reason why that stray bullet had made its way through his life, night overcame him.

the Old house

Long ago, there, in those narrow alleys a child used to play with dust.
On a step, in simple tracksuit he used to sit alone and swim in the intense heat of the sun to the unknown to me and you.
He did join the heat, an ant did he become, a famous footballer he became, won every match, every one, every life, eternity.
As the sun would take his heat away, rob him of its light but release the cold, the anxious shout of a mother who used to stir him and remind him that she is worried, and it might be the time to leave the lonely alley in which some were playing and each was engrossed in how to avert the oncoming bull-like runner who wanted to get a plastic ball.
As a farewell, they used roll the ball towards him and he reluctantly leaving would shoot the ball as hard as he could and used to stand there and see the ball go out his sight, then turn towards the shout of mother and shuffle into that old house in which she resided.

Letter Two

Dear Friend, 19 May 2005
It is funny, ironic, and sarcastic.
Logical? Is it logical? Where is the rationale?
Once someone said to me that one shouldn’t look for that in every single thing!
The irony is that those who claim are the most logical at some points they themselves very overtly contradict it. And they do it when they mustn’t, when the sky is dark, when drops of rain alight on my sister’s face and wet her cheeks. And when you are locked up inside your room and can’t dry her cheeks.
Rain? What is the rationale behind that? To do you good or bad? To cultivate or drown?
What is this rain that people drop? With hands throwing at you? What is Behind that? The intentions? What does she mean? Why does she act so illogically?
Yours,
A Friend

Letter One

Dear Friend, 17 May 2005

I feel heavy, so does my head. So heavy that it is droopy, I am left and unable to raise it.
I have long been choked on words as if someone strangling me, not letting the words come out of my mouth and yet shouts at me “Speak”.
Again contradiction. And it is nothing out of ordinary in our lives. We sit at a table with it and pass the finest smiles to each other unaware of the fact that it is subverting you from within. And it is all around you in every single thing which has surrounded you and me.
Everyone and everything seems to be something though actually it is something else. Something and Somebody that you can never know.

Yours,

A Friend

SOMEBODY

SOMEBODY! Are you?
I dread to think of and I really don’t like the word itself.
But the worst and the unbearable part is that others call and think of you so.
When they deny you your choice and voice, and as you bravely speak out you just feel to be inside a vacuum. You waste your anger while nothing can be heard.
“You are somebody, aren’t you?” She required. They have a boundary to classify you as insider or an alien. By this question, she intends to make sure you are an alien, a weird creature whom they can overtly renounce. She is not alone in this fishing; for instance, there is a he whom you have long trusted, but comes inside the room with a face adorned with a smirk and wants to buy personality at your expense. “I can’t see you,” he bursts into laughter, which merely means you are nobody.
They both consider themselves as somebody and are proud of that, but what makes somebody?
All in all, let’s whisper: I am nobody, and I beg of you not to tell them because they’d banish me, banish me to my room, to my notebook.
Being somebody is as useless and commonplace as a name. They are proud of their names; however, they could have had other names with no different consequences. And it is just an agreeable façade and fallacy. Deep inside if exists such a thing everything Is Different.

Friendship

Friendship is based upon a thread. You must be a clown if you long to stay over it.
And since a thread can’t withstand a lot of weight, so one to survive has no choice but to get rid of the other.
Having pushed the other person down, there remains nothing of that friend but you, which has got no meaning now. It is just a vacant word.

My Cap

Once there was a cap,
I trusted her like a pal,
A shelter was for me,
Everytime that I did need,

ln the heat my cooler,
In the sadness my soother,
In the long walks my company,
In the lonliness she was always just listening.

Then one day I sallied towards the blistering partched streets,
As the sun was dictating to everyone to give in,
"Me Will see your sweats on your foreheads"said the sun quaking with laughter,
"Absurd,''I said,"I've got a cap as my shelter."

His laughter awoke the wind,
The howling wind like a fiend,
Stormed forth,
And grabbed her,
Took her away from my thought.

The sun laughing coming back:
"Now, raise your head,
I want to see your sweat."
Drops of sweat trickling down my face,
Didn't listen, but looking forward went ahead.

Her mother was gay

When her hand touched his,
Nerves started throbbing, emotion growing,
Did it mean anything?
Eyes met eyes, minds were to fly.
No, hesitated she; air changed to wall.

No will to choose,
Then wall seperates two.
Blossoms are hard to pick,
When you fear the height.

She put her hand on her forehead,
Stood up looking at him, saying to herself;
Just evade his eyes, everything will be fine.
Looking at the cars felt his hand go cold,
He pulled his hand away,
I certainly was not gay.

Our Unstable Boat

Treacherous is this sea like a falling tower,
Our unstable boat not a bed anymore,
Now a prison under attack of its own jailers.

Strong, nervous, deceitful waves coming,
The mere feeble boat remembering the beach, now thrashing,
No one at the helm;the family silently losing it.

One at the bow looking at the sky,
One on the deck blithely laughing at the oncoming wave,
And one covering his eyes crying. ...


Here the boat still is,
Everyone still doing the same things.

Lie

Lie upon lie. Piles of lies that have shaped lives.
"I am fine" was a lie told to make a person perhaps happy.
The fundamental of them is to make other people happy and contented, to show that you are what they think or want. Most of the time they slip out of our mouths just because of people's curiosity and expectation while we are what we are and independent and have basically no responsibility towards them. They could be avoided if we tried to remain we, if we didn't want to endear ourselves to everybody we find adorable.
It is really wearing me out longing to have a decent image in your eyes. Why is this?
Why is there all lies?
As I walked down the twilight street all I saw was lie, on the right a shop called lie, on the left people, an old ragged man looking into his sack, a little further behind him a transparent looking young girl pointing at either sky or the skyscraper-it was indistinguishable-,behind me was just wind shaking the trees making them drop their leaves and some boys unable to play in this wind,a brick blowing over from an old wall by the force of the wind and the dust that made it hard for us to see.
In the front, silhouette opposite the sunshine, a figure with long hair hanging sideways, breasts unusually big stretched a hand(tiny little delicate one) towards me and with a masculine voice said "I want to give you a hand, stand up, wake up it is spring."