A Night With Frankie

Κάνε ό,τι καταλαβαίνεις κι ας μην σε καταλαβαίνουν οι άλλοι.

Αυτό σκέφτομαι βασικά.

Πώς να το κάνουμε δηλαδή? Τάχα επειδή φεύγει μια χρονιά κι έρχεται η άλλη, πρέπει να μπω σε φιλοσοφικό mood και να βρω κάτι βαθύ να πω? Μπα..

Trust me, δεν αλλάζει κάτι. Θα πάμε για ύπνο στο ίδιο κρεβάτι, θα ξυπνήσουμε στο ίδιο κρεβάτι με τις ίδιες πυτζάμες κι απλώς θα έχει αλλάξει το νούμερο στην ημερομηνία, no big deal. Δεν αλλάζει κάτι στην ουσία.

Εκτός κι αν το θες εσύ.

Ίσως η πρωτοχρονιά να είναι απλώς μια αφορμή.

Δεν λυπάμαι που φεύγει αυτή η χρονιά ούτε κάνω ανασκόπηση ούτε ανυπομονώ για αυτήν που θα ξημερώνει σε ένα 24ωρο. Όπως και πέρσι τέτοια μέρα -και ακόμα παραπάνω φέτος- δεν έχω κανένα expectation για τη νέα χρονιά. Στόχους, όνειρα και τα συγγενικά, τα έχω μηδενίσει εδώ και καιρό. Η μόνη διαφορά, το πως νιώθω πιο...'ok' with it. Ότι το χειρίζομαι καλύτερα. And it's alright.

Εμείς να είμαστε καλά and we'll figure it out σωστά?

Και για τα υπόλοιπα, there's always Sinatra.


Happy New Year kiddos xx

Moment Of Truth

Μην με παρεξηγείς που σκοτεινιάζω καμιά φορά.

Είμαι ηλίθια. Και ανασφαλής. Κάνω σενάρια στο μυαλό μου και τα πιστεύω για αληθινά.

Επειδή δεν πιστεύω ότι αξίζω. Δεν πιστεύω ότι μπορεί κάποιος να με αγαπήσει. Δεν έμαθα να κερδίζω.

Φοβάμαι ότι θα φάω τα μούτρα μου.

Ότι αν με δεις προσεκτικά, θα δεις πόσο άχρωμη και άδεια είμαι.

Ή πόσο πιστεύω ότι είμαι.

Και πια δεν μου έμειναν αντοχές, ψυχικές, συναισθηματικές και πνευματικές για να κάνω handle κάτι, επομένως σε παρακαλώ μη με γαμήσεις.

Ιt's not that I don't wanna be in love ever again. I just don't want to be handicapped by that feeling, ever again.

Με πιάνεις?

Αυτό βασικά. Μπορούμε να πιούμε τώρα?

I Like Your Hair

I say "I like your hair."

But what I really mean is:



Με αφορμή το θάνατο του εξαιρετικού Joe Cocker.

And your smile.

Brainwash

Ξέρεις, λένε ότι καμιά φορά πρέπει απλώς να κλικάρεις. Να έρθει εκείνη η κατάλληλη στιγμή που γίνεται ένα switch μες το μυαλό σου, έτσι στο άσχετο, εντελώς απρογραμμάτιστα, χωρίς καν να το περιμένεις.

Και συνήθως συμβαίνει αυτό κάτω από εντελώς άκυρες συνθήκες.

Σήμερα το πρωί. Πιάνω την τσιμπίδα μου. Που είναι 1) το απαραίτητο μου αξεσουάρ ever και 2) είναι η αγαπημένη μου τσιμπίδα που την έχω χρόνια.

Εντελώς άκυρα μου φεύγει από το χέρι και καρφώνεται -εξίσου εντελώς άκυρα- μεταξύ του τοίχου και της πλάτης της τουαλέτας. 2 λεπτά αργότερα με πετυχαίνεις με το chopstick να προσπαθώ να την ξεφρακάρω, μου φεύγει και το chopstick και σφηνώνεται και αυτό -εντελώς άκυρα- μεταξύ του τοίχου και της πλάτης της τουαλέτας.

Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUUUCK!!!!

Και με πιάνει ένα νευρικό γέλιο και αισθάνομαι τόσο ηλίθια γιατί είναι τόσο ηλίθιο και άκυρο αυτό που συμβαίνει. And then it hits me; this is my life.

Lovable things.

Stuck.

Unapproachable.

Gone.

So fuck it. Find humor in things again. In life. In people and situations. Stop dwelling on your failures and setbacks. Feel challenged again, not just beaten. Focus on the good, your talents, even look at your disadvantages as awesome qualities and areas to grow.

Shine again for fucks sake woman, you know you have it in you!

And yes, it's been dark but you know what? It takes some amount of darkness to see the stars.

And for them to shine.

So yeah, αυτό θα κάνω. Brainwash myself.

Για την ώρα όμως, πάω να πάρω καινούργια τσιμπίδα.

I Write My Brightest At My Darkest

Maybe I fit in better at the dark side.

That's where my mind and soul receive an uncontrollable adrenaline rush, work in overdrive and burst open to the essence of my truth.

Because how deep can you go when your life and your viewpoints are all about unicorns and rainbows, right?

Maybe I forgot how it is to be.... undamaged. Yeah, that's exactly it; I forgot how it feels to be completely undamaged, unbroken and unflawed.

And I understand that I will never be the girl I once was. But it isn't necessarily a bad thing as it had to happen in order to become the woman I am. Or trying to be.

I can live with that.

With a couple of cocktails.

It's just hard for me now to genuinely expect and believe that something lovely will happen, without it exploding in my face or falling apart and shredding me to endless pieces of disappointment. I'm always wondering now "What's the catch?".

I think I write my brightest at my darkest.

"What do you mean?" you ask.

That if you break my heart again I'll shoot you right in the head and probably get a best seller out of it.

*dark side grin*

How Was Your 2014?

So, how was 2014 for you?

Off From The Cutting Room Floor

Μπήκα στο "drafts" folder του blog μου σήμερα.

Παίζει να έχει μεγαλύτερο ενδιαφέρον από το ίδιο το blog τελικά.

Μια σειρά από λεκτικές φωτογραφίες κάποιας φάσης, στιγμής και συναισθηματικού κρεσέντου.

Σκέψεις αμοντάριστες, αυθόρμητες, ανολοκλήρωτες.

Ανεκπλήρωτες.

Κάτι σαν τη ζωή και τους χαζούς μας έρωτες.

My Scar

I needed this.

This.

All of this shit.

I didn't want it, but I needed it. I've learned from it. I've bloomed from it. It took me places I had never dared to go.

It wrote a new chapter.

All over me.

It scarred me.

It will always be with me now.

This.

This scar, this lesson, this experience.

These feelings, these thoughts, these insecurities.

This fear.

I didn't ask for it, hell I even tried to avoid it, but I needed it. It evolved me into something...else. I was inertia in human form and this, all this shit, was needed. It cost, but I earned stuff out of it. It broke my heart but it jump-started my brain.

I have a big ugly scar. It used to be big and swollen and sore and red. Touching it hurt. Touching it alone would make it burst and hot red blood would shoot out, running down on my skin. Eventually it got smaller. I had to scratch it to get the blood out. And smaller and smaller it became with time, the redness of it gradually fading away into the pale pinkish color of normal skin.

At first it scared me. I hated that scar but it also gave me comfort knowing it was there. Touching it, feeling it, hurting it, scratching and bursting it open gave me comfort. When it started getting smaller, I panicked. What would I do without my scar? What would life be without my scar? It couldn't be the same. And although it wasn't making me happy, I didn't like it, I had gotten used to it as part of myself.

And then one day my scar couldn't be called that anymore; it had gotten so small, so tiny, so...healed almost. I didn't know what to do. There was new skin, pretty undamaged skin and my scar was nothing but a teeny tiny dot; you probably wouldn't even know it was there.

And I started scratching. Then harder. And then even harder yet. Then I got a pencil. Stuck it through my newly healed flesh, to get it out, come on, there has to be blood in there come on let it rush out.

Nothing.

I dash to the kitchen, violently open the drawer and grab a knife. I look at my reflection in it. It almost brings the sense back to me.

What the hell am I doing?

Why am I so compelled to dig out a bloody hole in me again?

And who can guarantee me that there is any blood left to come out of that hole?

I go back to bed. Get under the warm covers and curl up in a small ball.

Your lips on my shoulder almost scare the hell out of me.

You turn me over and put me in your arms, kissing my forehead as I rest my head in your neck and my arm on your chest.

That comfortable silence,

Your fingers go up and down my arm, that intimate familiar gesture I always loved about you.

You stop. Your finger resting on my scar.

You feel it.

You can feel it.

You know it's there.

"Where did you get this from?" you ask me.

And I feel like barging into the kitchen, grabbing that knife and sticking it into your heart.

Don't. Ask. Me. About. That.

You. Don't. Ask. Me. About. That.

And while I'm staring into the nothingness of the dark room, motionless, maybe emotionless even, I cannot think of a decent answer to give you that will not break your comfort. Your serenity. Your bubble. Your ego.

Your heart.

"Leave it alone" I eventually say. "It happened a long time ago."

And it has your name written all over it.

Bedtime Stories

Μου αρέσει αυτό που κάνουμε.

Δεν θυμάμαι αν στο είπα ποτέ. Αλλά μου αρέσει. Είναι λίγο σκανδαλιάρικο. Ίσως για αυτό μου αρέσει.

Δίνουμε στον εαυτό μας μια καλή δικαιολογία να ξαναγίνουμε παιδιά. Αυτά τα παιδιά που τρώνες κρυφά από τη μαμά τις σοκολάτες. Που τις κρύβει βαθιά στο ψηλότερο ντουλάπι της κουζίνας, ενώ την κρυφοκοιτάμε από την πόρτα χωρίς να ξέρει ότι γνωρίζουμε την γλυκιά κρυψώνα της.

Κι όταν φύγει, πιάνουμε σιγά σιγά την καρέκλα, την σηκώνουμε για να μην τρίξει στο πάτωμα και ανεβαίνουμε για να πάρουμε μια σοκολάτα. Μια παραπάνω από ότι δικαιούμαστε. Μπορεί και να μην την θέλουμε στα αλήθεια, αλλά ο πειρασμός της είναι τόσο μεγάλος και τόσο γλυκός που μας κάνει να την θέλουμε παραπάνω.

Αυτό κάνουμε. Εξαφανιζόμαστε μια στο τόσο από όλους και όλα και τρώμε κρυφά σοκολάτες. Παίρνουμε το αυτοκίνητο, πάμε κάπου ψηλά και ήσυχα, ξαπλώνουμε στο καπό και κοιτάμε τα αστέρια.

Δεν είμαστε σαν τους άλλους εμείς: εμείς δεν μεγαλώσαμε. Μπορεί να ψηλώσαμε, να παχύναμε, να χόντρυνε η φωνή μας αλλά μείναμε παιδιά. Σε αυτό το καβούκι του ενήλικα, κρύψαμε καλά το παιδί μας, σαν εκείνη την γλυκιά ντουλάπα της κουζίνας, που έκρυβε ένα τόσο γλυκό και νόστιμο κόσμο, αλλά δεν το ήξερε κανείς.

Μου αρέσει αυτό που κάνουμε. Που κάνουμε ακόμα σκανδαλιές. Κοιτιόμαστε στα μάτια και χαμογελάμε πονηρά γιατί έχουμε ένα μυστικό. Κανείς δεν ξέρει ότι παραμείναμε παιδιά. Κανείς δε μπορεί να καταλάβει αυτά με τα οποία γελάμε και διασκεδάζουμε εμείς. Νομίζουν ότι είμαστε κι εμείς στα αλήθεια ενήλικες, αλλά δεν είμαστε; παραμείναμε ονειροπόλοι, ρομαντικοί και όμορφοι. Παραμείναμε παιδιά, και δεν το ξέρουνε.

Κι εκεί, πάνω στο καπό, μακριά από όλους, εκεί που είμαστε ασφαλείς, μου λες ιστορίες. Και τις λες τόσο ωραία, τόσο παραστατικά. Λάμπουν τα μάτια σου κι όταν χαμογελάς, λάμπεις ολόκληρος. Κοιτάμε τα αστέρια και με ταξιδεύεις σε όλα αυτά που έχεις δει. Κι επειδή τα λες τόσο όμορφα, τόσο αληθινά και τόσο χαρούμενα, νιώθω πως τα είδα και τα έζησα κι εγώ.

Κι ενώ κοιτάμε τον ουρανό και μετράμε τα αστέρια, έρχεται πάντα εκείνη η στιγμή που σωπαίνουμε. Η στιγμή που έχουμε μετρήσει πια όλα τα αστέρια και που ξέρουμε ότι σε λίγο θα πρέπει να ξυπνήσουμε τον ενήλικα μας.

Είναι η ώρα που αρχίζει να φυσάει λίγο πριν ξημερώσει. Και με παίρνεις αγκαλιά και μου φιλάς τα μαλλιά κάτω από τα αστέρια, ενώ εγώ κουρνιάζω -έστω για λίγο ακόμα- βαθιά στην αγκαλιά σου, χώνοντας τη μούρη μου στο λαιμό σου.

Και είναι τόσο ωραία. Σαν την πιο νόστιμη, χορταστική, γλυκιά σοκολάτα.

"Για μένα θα είσαι πάντα Αύγουστος" μου λες.

Χαμογελάω και δεν το βλέπεις έτσι όπως είμαι κρυμμένη στην αγκαλιά σου. Αλλά το καταλαβαίνεις ότι μου αρέσει. Σε γαργαλάει η ανάσα μου, και χαμογελάς κι εσύ.

"Εσύ θα είσαι πάντα το μικρό μου δακτυλάκι, αυτό στο δεξί μου πόδι" σου απαντώ.

Αυτό που πάντα το χτυπάω σε γωνίες, τραπέζια και παπούτσια, αυτό που υποφέρει από την φόρα και την βιασύνη μου, αυτό που με γονατίζει από τον πόνο. Αυτό το τόσο μικρό μέρος του σώματός μου, που μου δίνει όμως ισορροπία. Αυτό το μικρό κομματάκι, που με κάνει όμως πλήρη.

Αυτό που ενώ έχει χτυπηθεί τόσες φορές, που με έχει τσακίσει από τον πόνο άλλες τόσες, κι όμως παραμένει δυνατό, ανθεκτικό και στη θέση του.

"Πες μου ακόμα μια ιστορία πριν φύγουμε" σου λέω.

Κι ενώ αρχίζει να χαράζει, και οι πλάτες μας έχουν κρυώσει στο κρύο μέταλλο του αυτοκινήτου, η φωνή σου με ταξιδεύει σε μέρη και πράγματα που δεν έχω δει, κι όμως αισθάνομαι πως τα έχω κιόλας ζήσει.

The Blinking Line

I'm sitting on the edge of the building. Lighting a cigarette, blowing my smoke into the clear moonless night.

My feet are dangling above the noisy street below, as I watch cars go by, people go by, blowing them my cigarette smoke and they have no idea that they're being watched.

Nothing is holding me but the weight of my own body on my butt sitting on that ledge. My feet are dangling, I'm not holding on. And peculiarly, I'm not afraid.

I always wondered though, what it would be like to fall from up there. Sure, it won't last long, but what would it feel like?

Always makes me wonder.

I guess I'm not too keen to find out. If I were, I would have jumped a long long time ago.

And then I hear footsteps coming from behind me. I don't bother to turn around; my attention is still down below on the passing cars and people, wondering where they're coming from, where they're going and who they're going home to.

The footsteps grow louder eventually and this figure looks over the ledge where I'm sitting. With one acrobatic jump, the figure is next to me, feet dangling over the nothingness below.

"It took you a while" I say throwing my cigarette butt, trying to get it as far as possible to amuse my otherwise worried mind.

I light another, take a long pleasurable drag and offer it to you. You take it in silence, look at it for a moment and then you take a drag yourself, coughing lightly as you blow out the smoke. I look out to the dark sky, a million thoughts rushing through my mind. And yet I can't make anything out of it. I feel that I've got so much to say and yet I'm lost for words.

You give me the cigarette back as I'm banging my heels into the wall below, trying to conceal my perplexity. After all this unending, ceaseless and excruciating thinking, my brain went blank. Just like a computer, a blinking line expecting you to say something, write something, continue the thought process, my mind has been reduced to nothing but a blinking line on a white clear page.

*blink blink blink*

Nope. Still nothing.

Your voice breaks the silence that has fallen between us "It's so dark".

I finally turn around and look at your face. Study it for a moment. Taking a mental picture of the moment, the feeling, the sense of it. And then, still holding the cigarette, I reach out and touch your face. You smile; that little smile of mild embarrassment of the intimacy of such a gesture and that little smile of pleasure, for exactly the same reason.

"What happens if we slip and fall?" I ask you.

"We die" you say.

A moment. Then... you lean... I mirror your movement. And you kiss me.

And all of a sudden, like some rush of panic has washed over me, I grab onto the ledge with both my hands, holding on for dear life oh-so-tightly.

And the blinking line abruptly vanishes.

Crime Scene

The worst crimes happen when you least expect it, from the one you least expect it from.

The most horrific crime scenes where once happy places.

The worst kind of victim is one that has not been hurt, has no cuts or bruises and yet is damaged all the way.

I sleep on a crime scene every night.

Looking Through The Window

Yeah.

I feel like poking that soft spot inside of me. It feels kinda sore lately.

And although poking and scratching it only makes it worse and it hurts, it kinda soothes the pain as well.

Which is ironic really. How does pain feed off pain to give some relief?

Yeah...

I looked at myself in the mirror in the morning and....fuck. My eyes, its like they're two huge black holes. I feel that anyone can see the chaos in my head just by staring at my face.

So yeah, tonight I felt like listening to music and reading poetry, the dark painful words of Mr Bukowski and the legendary Edgar Allan Poe, immerse myself into their worlds to hopefully make sense of mine.

I have a precious few who have been keeping an eye on me lately; but honestly? I think I've shut myself from the world because that's how I feel safe.

Maybe it is this place; I feel that I'm not living up to my potential, I feel that certain values of this society disagree with mine and I feel there isn't enough room to breathe. After I came back last year, I had told myself that if nothing world-shaking happens in the next 12 months, I'll leave. And I'm at a point in my life where I'm balancing between now or never. So, even though several things have happened, both pleasant and unpleasant, nothing world-shaking occurred. And I'm here. And I haven't booked a ticket and I'm left wondering what-the-fuck Tinks?

What the fuck?

It gets scary sometimes. And I feel very vulnerable right now.

Requiem

We were young.

Everything was bright. We shared smiles and candy.

There was music and light.

And a promising feeling that things were only going to get better.

And yet we grow up.

And the merry-go-round of life isn't what it's cut out to be.

It's not like they promised us it would be.

I looked out the window.

It was a dark sad night.

I was standing in the middle of the living room. Couldn't bring myself to sit down.

Our shoulders were touching, but we were looking in opposite directions.

"It's a pity" you said.

My mouth had already turned to sand, no sound could possibly come out of me except the deepest, darkest, saddest cry for help.

I don't remember much. Before or after that. But I remember that very moment so clearly; that breath you took, that sharp thought that went through my mind, the street noises from down bellow and the pain oozing out of my heart, my soul, my mind, all over me, how you turned and looked at me, how I looked at you, your smell, how your face felt.

I didn't look back walking out. And yet somehow, it feels that I've been walking backwards for a year now, trying not to lose sight of you, as if I can't even turn away.

It's a dark night. A sad one too I guess.

And I miss you so much right now.

Two Cigarettes

I have this associate at work whom I see every once in a while.

Hadn't seen him in a while actually. 6 months maybe.

And I saw him today.

So he's like, let me fill you in with this and that for work, hey let's do it over a cigarette, what the hell.

So we go to the little room of sin (a.k.a. the smokers' room) and we're chatting along for work, figuring this and that out.

Then he asks me about something, something that is very dear and important to me, how's it going etctetera etctetera. And it hits me then and there, that everytime he sees me, he asks me about it. He has nothing to do with it, it has nothing to do with our work and yet, he always remembers and has the courtesy to ask me about it because he knows I'm into it.

Inevitably, comparisons are automatically made with lets-not-even-go-there (yes, it's a person). And yet this guy, he barely knows me, and yet he seems to know what's important to me, and most importantly, shows some sort of interest.

Then we get talking about other stuff, food and music and it's a really cool and easygoing conversation with a flow, you know? This person barely knows me, he's never been to my house, he's never kissed me or slept with me, and yet with that itty bitty comment and that awesome conversation where you just understand and are understood, he made lets-not-even-go-there look so small.

So we're chatting away and his phone rings. He pauses for a second, pushes the silence button and returns to our conversation. And it just goes on like that. And we light up another cigarette. And during that cigarette he tells me what he's been up to the last 6 months, shows me pictures and videos from here and there and I feel that I know this person more than I know him, even though I've known him for years. I felt that this stranger essentially, let me into his mind and life, over that God damn cigarette a lot more that him, with whom I have shared so much.

Isn't it ironic?

Or sad?

So by the time I leave the smokers room to resume my work, I have a huge smile on my face because after a long looooong time, I had a decent, easygoing conversation with a person. Who also seemed to genuinely enjoy talking to me too, without being simply polite or typical.

And driving around earlier tonight, I had all these thoughts... I haven't forgiven him 100% yet. I haven't forgiven him for letting me down, for being so... For not being who I thought he was. For not letting me in. And on that note, I haven't forgiven myself either 100% for projecting all those expectations on him. For not doing this or that. For several things. So yeah, I guess I'm still struggling with the bitterness that left me with.

Maybe one day I'll be completely over it. Him. It's taking me a while I know. It just went too deep this time I guess.

And maybe one day, songs won't remind me of him, or those feelings, or... yeah.

Not even this one.

One Woman Show

One of the things that makes me really proud about my house, is the fact that a lot of stuff in here, were assembled by me. Me, myself and I. Furniture, light stands, the freaking wall, curtains. Yeap, I put a lot of these things together, myself.

That's why I say "my house" and I feel it to the bone.

I've always been a very independent and self sufficient spirit. I've also been an outspoken one. I grew up in house where it didn't matter if I was a boy or a girl because I was brought up to believe in and respect equality. I grew up in a country that respects and believes in equality, gender-wise, sex-wise, religion-wise. Therefore, I have learnt to respect others, but I also demand respect back.

In my work environment, I often feel that I am competing against my gender. As if I have to prove that because I am a woman, I can be capable. And I believe I have been doing pretty well so far. But at times of upheaval, I feel that my skills, my motives, my personality even, come into question. As I said, I'm an outspoken confident individual. Which is great if you're a man, but if you're a woman, these characteristics are often met by scrutiny.

If I go in a meeting and they don't like what they hear, my mental or hormonal stability are questioned. If I have ambitions and work (keyword, work) to achieve them, I must be money driven or sleeping with the boss. And in cases were I express my anger or disapproval, I'm just a woman that over-estimates herself.

In the above cases, if I were a man, we'd probably get into a heated argument for 3 minutes, before opening a bottle of scotch and toasting each other.

Of course I cannot change the world. I'd be a fool to even consider myself capable of doing that. However, I have a choice; and I choose to be me, stand up for what I believe in, even in cases where it will backfire. Because if I succumb once to whatever stereotype they think I should fit in and stay put, I'll just be opening the road for them to keep on doing it.

I demand respect. But I understand that it's something that is earned. And noone respects a pushover.

And God knows I've never been one.

So here I am, wondering what tomorrow will bring. Feeling insecure, but confident in what I have done and how I have handled it. It disappoints me that I have been doubted because I'm not one of the boys. But for the past 9 years I've been a one-woman-show in a man's world.

And I think that says a lot about me.

Rare

I started writing a while ago. Writing writing writing... getting it all out. Ha! What an angry justifying post!

*sigh*

Delete.

And writing again.

And then, deleting again.

But then I figured, is it really worth it Tinks? Using up whatever minimal cyber space for this kind of bull?

Nah.

Is that what you wanna put out there? Negativity?

Nope.

I could write stories about people, and what they have being doing to me lately that will entertain you endlessly. People can be hurtful motherfuckers, you know that right?

But in all honesty, inspite of my bruised ego or how I've been mistreated? I choose to focus on what matters. Write that down. Put that out there.

So here it goes.

Yesterday, I got a surprise call from a dear dear heart out there, telling me to come downstairs, I'm right here. He holds a coffee table book, from my favorite city in the whole wide world saying that he saw it, it made him think of me, he got it for me and here he is.

And that gesture, how I crossed his mind without a hidden agenda, on an otherwise slow Sunday, made me believe in the kindness and honesty in people again.

He is rare. The way he thinks is rare. And the kindness of his heart is rare.

And how he made me feel is even rarer.

But definitely worth writing about, instead of some... yeah, definitely not worth the cyber space.

Have a good rare week y'all x

Wish List

I've been staring at the screen for some time now.

I don't know exactly what to say.

This is how it goes;

People tend to tire me lately. Most people I mean. And instead of putting myself through that mental agony, I'd rather stay alone.

Or hang out with those precious few that do not tire me. Mentally or otherwise.

Lately, more than ever, I have this craving for things that feed my soul. It is no longer negotiable. I need to feel spiritually, emotionally, mentally (I can go on for a while, but I'll stop here 'cause I have a feeling you got the picture) fulfilled with the things I do, the people I interact with, the conversations I have and the time I spend.

I'm standing here. It's okay if I don't fit it; I probably don't want to anyway.

This is me; and I feel comfortable in my skin. I'm not bulletproof; people can still be very hurtful, but I hope I'm stronger than before. I know for sure I'm more content than I ever was.

But still, there was just something... couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe it's all this that I've been going through the last year; this emotional exhaustion, this lost feeling, this sadness that didn't allow me to feel (dare I say) "alive"? Or just plain excitement, about anything. It's like the happy, excitement button in me is off.

And all of a sudden, when you least expect it, the unexpectable happens. A thing, so small, that switches on whatever was switched off in you for so (God so) long. And before you know it, I'm jumping up and down in the house, at the prospect alone of it being a possibility. That small.

And yet, for me, where I'm coming from? It was the hugest thing ever. The kind that brings yearning hot tears to your eyes. The kind that makes you whisper "God I want it so bad" in case it hears you and goes away.

So yeah, I guess I do have a wish list afterall.

Sometimes, you think you have no idea what you want. Until it's there, and you know.

You just know.

And I've been waiting for it a long time.

And such moments are above and beyond words. There's only the sound of something... undefined. And it's all you need.

In that very moment.

That Little Story I Heard A Long Time Ago

Ήμουν πολύ μικρή όταν την πρωτοάκουσα εκείνη την ιστορία. 5- 6 χρονών? Την ιστορία του Ηρακλή στο σταυροδρόμι και τις δύο γκόμενες, που η μία του έδειχνει το δύσκολο δρόμο και η άλλη τον εύκολο. Και θυμάμαι που μου είχε κάνει εντύπωση, τόσο που so so many years later, ακόμα την θυμάμαι.

Disney and Hercules fucked me up.

Και τελικά, αυτή η ιστορία είναι τόσο αληθινή και την βλέπεις implemented στην καθημερινότητα.

Ήμουν ανέκαθεν δουλευταρού και κατ' επέκταση, θεωρώ ότι έχω διεκδικήσει κάποια πράγματα. Τα δικαιούμαι, λέω. Τα αξίζω, λέω.

Και να'μαι, σε μια συνάντηση και να μου τα δίνουν όλα στο πιάτο. Έτσι. Απλά. Με αντάλλαγμα να μπω σε καλούπια. Να με διαμορφώσουν. Να με φτιάξουν.

Στην αρχή θαμπώθηκα, δε θα το αρνηθώ. Τα είδα όλα ωραία, όλα λαμπερά. Αλλά μετά σκέφτηκα, it's not me. Δε θα αντέξω. Με ξέρω. Ι have to be me. I have to stay true to me.

So I said, no. I cannot do this, not like this. This is who I am, this is what I'm worth and if you really want it, this is how it's gonna go.

Κι έφυγα από το meeting, νιώθοντας λίγο.... δεν ξέρω, όχι με αμφιβολίες ακριβώς, αλλά με ένα περίεργο συναίσθημα. Τελευταία νιώθω πιο confident ότι ξέρω ποια είμαι και τι θέλω (ή τι δεν θέλω), έτσι είναι πιο εύκολο να μην παρασυρθώ από κάτι ή να υποστηρίξω με πάθος αυτό που λέω και πιστεύω. Επομένως, ενώ σε μια τέτοια συνάντηση παλιά θα ερχόμουν σε δύσκολη θέση, σήμερα ήμουν in control και ήξερα τι ήθελα και πως να το διεκδικήσω. Και κυρίως, να μη νιώσω άσχημα όταν δεν συμφωνώ με τον άλλο.

Το ότι ήταν το πρώην αφεντικό μου, just added an itty bit to my ego.

Αλλά it's water under the bridge. I'm not the girl he fired anymore; I'm the woman he came asking back. I'm not the girl that was afraid anymore; I am a woman that knows her worth. Mainly because I proved it, my way, through my ethic and personality.

And maybe that's why he came back.

And maybe that's why I walked away.

And maybe that's why I remembered that Hercules story tonight. Ξέρω σε ποιο δρόμο είμαι. It's longer, harder, with a lot more doubt, but damn, I know that I'll walk it in 4 inch heels like a lady, work like a captain and have a pirate attitude about it and earn it.

*cocktail sip*

Wouldn't change it one bit.

Δεν Είναι Τίποτα

It's not me.

This, is not me.

You seem to be doing just fine and I feel...what do I feel? As if you deprived me of some kind of happiness.

Hence the bitterness.

And yet, if anything were to happen to you, I'd probably die. The thought alone upsets me and brings tears to my eyes.

And yet, I have a devil in me and I don't know how to get rid of it.

I can't even hear your name without feeling as if the life has been blown out of me,

I'm trying.

But sometimes, I don't feel strong or capable anymore.

Do You Know?

Γέλασες. Με κάτι που είπα.

Σε έκανα και γέλασες.

Και μετά από μήνες, χαμογέλασε η ψυχή μου.

Φοβάμαι. Ότι θα φύγεις.

Φοβάμαι ότι έχεις φύγει ήδη, ενώ κρατώ ακόμα στο χέρι μου το μαντήλι που σου σκούπισα τα δάκρυα, και είναι ακόμα ζεστό.

Και φοβάμαι που ίσως είναι το μόνο που θα μου μείνει.

Μαζί με τον καημό.

Σε αγάπησα. Πρώτη.

Πριν από όλους.

Και δεν έχω σταματήσει, όσο και να το πάλεψα.

Λένε πως ανήκεις στον άνθρωπο που σκέφτεσαι μόλις ξυπνήσεις το πρωί.

Και που είναι η τελευταία σκέψη σου το βράδυ πριν πας για ύπνο.

Η ψυχή μου το ξέρει.

Κι ενώ σπαράζω μέσα μου που δεν είσαι εδώ, που δεν κοιμάμαι πια στα χέρια σου, που το πρόσωπό σου δεν αγγίζει το δικό μου, άμα σε βλέπω να γελάς, χαίρομαι που είσαι καλά. Γεμίζει ο κόσμος μου χρώματα, όσο και να πονά.

Όσο και να μου λείπεις.

Και σου λέω καληνύχτα, κάθε βράδυ καληνύχτα, έστω κι αν είσαι πια μακριά.

Two Drifters

Κοιμάμαι με το παράθυρο ανοιχτό.

Δεν χρειάζεται πια κλιματιστικό.

Το παράθυρο μένει ανοιχτό το βράδυ. Έβαλα και την λεπτή μου κουβέρτα. I like my bed this time of year.

Πέρσι...ήμουν κάπου αλλού. Νομίζω πέρσι, μετά από πολλά χρόνια ένιωσα, βίωσα και χάρηκα φθινόπωρο. Κάποτε μου λείπει το πέρσι... well, μου λείπει το πού ήμουνα πέρσι actually.

Και ξέρεις τι σκέφτηκα? Μαλάκα, έκανες το καλύτερο πράγμα που σηκώθηκες κι έφυγες. Έστω για λίγο. Που πήγες εκεί που πήγες. Μου έκανε απερίγραπτα καλό. Το χρειαζόμουνα.

Με νιώθω να το χρειάζομαι πάλι τώρα τελευταία.

Πεθαίνουν όλα τώρα. Σιγά σιγά, λίγο λίγο. Και κοιμόμαστε με τα παράθυρα ανοιχτά. Να ξορκίσουμε ίσως, δεν ξέρω κι εγώ τι. Και σκέφτηκα ότι κι εμείς τι είμαστε δηλαδή, ένα φύλλο που θα πέσει και πάει. Άρα, τι κάνω? Τι θέλω να κάνω και αξίζει τον κόπο να ασχοληθώ?

Δυο χέρια φίλε μου. Να σε κρατάνε αγκαλιά το βράδυ ενώ κοιμάσαι με το παράθυρο ανοιχτό. Δυο χείλη που να σε φιλάνε στο μέτωπο όταν φυσάει λίγο παραπάνω και κουρνιάζεις σε αυτά τα δυο χέρια.

Ένα στόμα να σου πει μια καλή κουβέντα και δυο αυτιά να σε ακούσουν όταν θα πεις την δικιά σου.

Αν αξίζει κάτι, είναι να βρεις όλα τα παραπάνω σε έναν άνθρωπο.

Κι αν τον κάνεις να γελάει κιόλας, τότε ξέρεις πως τα έχεις όλα.

Και πως όχι, δεν είσαι απλώς ένα φύλλο και πάει. Είσαι από τα φύλλα που κάποιος κάπου κάποτε θα το μαζέψει από το έδαφος γιατί κάτι του έκανε, κάτι του τράβηξε την προσοχή και θα το φυλάξει στις σελίδες ενός βιβλίου. Και όποτε το βλέπει θα χαμογελά γιατί κάτι του θυμίζει.

Κι ας μην το ομολογήσει ποτέ.

Yeah..

Yeah...

It's...

It feels...

Fuck.

Maybe it just piled up. Year after year, disappointment upon disappointment. And maybe I'm just too tired or maybe just incapable of dealing with it or getting rid of it.

Like I said; yeah..

It's... It feels....

Fuck it.

You're looking at me with a puzzled look on your face, as my incoherent words and thoughts seem to confuse you further. I'm walking up and down the house, glass in hand, trying to gather my thoughts, but how can you do that when your brain feels shattered?

Maybe you should stop drinking, you suggest.

Honey, you don't know half of it.

Finally I sit right across you. I look up and see your face, that beautiful face the tips of my fingers have caressed inch by inch. Faint dark circles, you look a little tired but good. You're good. You're okay.

I look at you and wonder, how am I gonna do this? How do you let go? How do you see the person you love go away?

The thought alone breaks my heart.

How? How can I even dare say I love you when I can't bear the thought of you being okay and happy and shit without me?

I don't know how. I really don't.

But I do know that there's nothing else to do.

I look at you straight in the eye, I move a little closer, touch your hair and say 'go, be happy, and I promise I'll be happy for you'.

You get up and hug me, I swear I think my heart stopped and off you go, running off into the sunset.

And then, I'm alone. Glass in hand, not walking up and down the house, but feeling as if you took a part of me I'll never get back.

And that's how I know I'll never recover.

But that's love right? An ugly creature with angelic eyes.

And no words would ever be enough.

Timing

They say, the timing is never gonna be right; do it now.

But then again, they also say, timing is everything.

Have you ever noticed that, for one deep meaningful saying, there is another one that says the exact opposite thing in the same deep meaningful way?

I've been thinking about time and timing lately. Timing mainly, and how things works out at their own accord, without even realizing how the transition occurred.

Yes, I think I'm having a -rare- glimpse of clarity and I can write something down without being too depressed or depressing. So, timing.

I hate timing. Because I'm one of those right-now kind of people. Now now now. I want answers now. I want to know now. I want to do this now.

God, it's exhausting.

So here I am, waiting for things, but I'm exactly sure of what. Waiting for the pain to completely desert με. Waiting for this disappointment to let go of me. Waiting to start believing in me, in life, in people, in love, in magic. Waiting for this at work. Waiting for that other opportunity.

Waiting for that damn day when I'll look back on this night, this month, this past year and say 'Girl, you worried over nothing'.

*sigh*

Some things happened. And of course it came at the worse timing possible (they design it that way right?). But then again, other things happened and it was just the perfect timing as I was on the edge of shooting myself (figure of speech, don't get excited, I don't even own a gun).

And here I am, on this idle Wednesday night, smoking and drinking in my apartment. Wondering. Doubting. Waiting.

I wake up in the middle of the night every single night lately. I feel exhausted somewhere inside my head. I have long days, I'm on auto pilot, I'm out there and trying. But I've never felt so numb and empty in my entire life. It's like an ongoing situation; it's not the side effect of something that happened. It's like, this is what's left of me. And I'm waiting, taking deep breath after deep breath and waiting to start feeling like myself again. Not just for an hour, an evening or a day. But for everyday.

I feel drained. Tired. Of people. Of stuff. Of dare I say everything? I'm not even sure what makes me happy anymore. I think I've lost faith.

So I'm lingering.

Until the time is right again.

In My Head

I wake up in the middle of the night. Was it a loud noise? Was it a bad dream that woke me from my sleep?

I don't know. I'm not sure.

But I lay there, on my side, legs curled up close to my body, clutching my pillow, eyes wide open and I don't dare move.

I'm frightened for some reason. I don't dare move. Why am I so scared? Why do I feel if I turn around, there will be someone there? I'm alone. I know I'm alone. I know there's noone there and yet I dare not move, paralyzed by fear in the dark quiet house.

I close my eyes, trying so hard to relax and go back to sleep. But I can't. This menacing feeling of someone being in my room is terrifying me. I'm too scared to look under the bed. They always hide under the bed, right? Or are they in the closet?

My room almost looks unfamiliar and unwelcoming while these thoughts are further fueling my paranoia.

I'm losing my mind. I'm terrified, I can't even move, and I have no idea of what.

The unknown? It's always worse in our head right? It always grows into abnormal proportions and drives us insane.

I don't know how, but eventually I guess I drifted back to sleep. I woke up and there was light coming through the window. I woke up in the same curled up position I was. My body is aching.

I look under the bed. No, there's no monster there with big sharp claws waiting for the perfect moment to grab me and shred me to pieces.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

It was in my head.

It's always in our head.

Beam me up Scotty

Goodnight you.

Look At That

Oh look at you.

So smiley and funny. God everyone loves you. They feel you're their best friend. Or at least, would want you to be. You're so much fun and so carefree and you make people laugh and they feel happy for a while, I mean you're awesome. You're the man. You've got it all figured out.

Look at you.

With your easygoing flair. Your Converse sneakers, that huge smile, I mean you're so approachable and lovely.

Look at that.

It must be fun in your world. You make everything seem so easy and pretty and funny. It must be nice. God so nice. Yeah. No wonder they all like you.

Won't you look at that.

Yeah... It is a sight for sore eyes. Come a little closer. No?

Okay, I'll move a little closer.

Let me get a better look. The shininess was blinding me from there. Okay, I'm closer now; my eyes don't hurt anymore.

I'm looking.

Your T-shirt has stains on it. A small hole too. Your Converse sneakers are dirty. You haven't brushed your teeth today have you?

Hey, what's wrong? Don't look away. It's alright. I get it; all that is an act but I'm not afraid. I see you. Come closer.

You still don't move.

Fine. I'll come a little closer then.

What happened to your eyes? Where are they? Cause all I see are two black holes staring back at me. Come on, tell me a joke, you're good at that, come on, make me laugh. What happened? Why are you so serious? You're so much fun from back there.

Your hand feels cold. And weightless. From this close, you look transparent, as if you're not even there.

And now I understand why they all stay away. It's better when you're on the pedestal. They see what they want to see. They see what they need to see.

But what about those that came closer? Why did they all run away? How could you scare off the ones that loved you the most?

Who hurt you? Who was it? Was it mummy? Was it daddy? Because your wounds from so close are so obvious. You're not even licking them. Not even trying to heal them. Maybe you're even oblivious to their presence afterall.

Look at you. So transparent. So thin. You're like the wind; can't grasp it. You slip away.

Away.

What happened to you?

I'm not even sure you can hear me anymore.

Knock Knock Knocking On The Door

Your house. No, your home. It's a home. It's your refuge. Where you feel secluded and safe. Up up in the clouds, high up from the ground. It's not that you like to look down on others, no; you just wanna feel away from it all.

But I'm a fairy. I'm tiny and I fly and shit and somehow I manage to slip through the cracks. And there I am, in your home, in your refuge, looking out into the dark sky and the bright stars and the brighter city lights. God everything looks so tiny from up here. I could stare out this window for hours.

Which I do really, cigarette in hand, your cat purring around my legs while you're in the kitchen making us something yummy. At least that's what I presume from the smell.

Mmmmm, the view and the smells and the warm welcome of the cat just make me feel at home.

But I'm not, am I? I'm just a visitor. I'm on a look-but-do-not-touch basis.

I'll probably be gone before dawn.

We're not talking. We're so close but in completely different universes. It's quiet up here. Even the sound from the street below is far far away. Baffled even. We're too high up. But I like it. I prefer it this way. We're untouchable. That's why it feels safe.

You break the silence saying dinner is ready. I stumble to the kitchen bar, I had one too many glasses of wine, eh? I take my seat. We eat in silence. I'm toying around with my fork and food on my plate. We don't look at each other, but it's that comfortable silence that just makes sense to you and me.

Suddenly there's a knock on the door. So quiet, so faint. But I hear it. The cat hears it. Don't you hear it? Nope you don't seem to notice, you haven't even looked up from your plate. But there it is again, a faint knock knock on the front door.

You just keep eating.

Gradually the knocks get louder. Harder. I look at you; you're still staring into your plate, eating away as if you can't hear a damn thing.

"Don't you hear the knocking?"

My voice almost startles you; as if I woke you up from a trance. And suddenly you hear the knocking, which still grows in volume and intensity. Suddenly you look alarmed. As if you're threatened by it.

The knocking turns into pounding, God it almost feels like whoever is behind that door is gonna bring it down.

Pow. Pow. Pow.

You get up, you make a small circle around the kitchen, unsure what to do and then you just sit under the sink. I stare at you, the pounding growing on that door and you sit in a little ball, knees in hands, under the kitchen sink, staring in silence.

"Aren't you gonna get that?" I ask.

But you're just staring into silence. Even my voice can't get through to you; you're shutting down again.

I'm not sure why, but I get up. I want to smack you. Get you to your feet, grab your shoulders and shake you out of it. But that noise is growing. And I can't take it. So I march to the door, grab that knob and open it violently.

The door swings open and I'm face to face..

... with myself.

I look into my eyes, I barely recognize me.

My other self walks into the house, your home, sees you under the sink. God, not again. And goes to the window and lights a cigarette.

And it finally hits me; I was never really here, was I?

You Walked In A Bar

I've been sitting here for hours. Not too crowded, dim lights, just the way I like it. I've been nursing a drink for some time now. Playing around with the glass in my hand. Probably because I'm already a little tipsy and I don't feel like spending the rest of the night with my head down in the toilet.

Am I waiting? Or am I just too drunk to get up and leave?

Fuck. I don't know. With one abrupt gulp, I finish off that drink and order another.

I know I'm gonna be sorry in the morning.

But right now it's okay. It's not too crowded, the lights are low and noone is paying attention to me.

Then the door opens. And you walk in the bar. Is it raining outside? 'Cause your jacket is kinda wet. Your hair too but you don't even notice. Damn you look tired.

My drink arrives as you scan the room and set your eyes on me. That little smile of pleasant surprise and acknowledgement. It could also be the what-the-fuck look but I'm too tipsy to notice the difference. And as I'm thinking how did you end up in this dodgy bar on this idle evening, you walk over. Smile still there.

I light a cigarette. You order a drink. And we just sit there. Me smoking, you looking at me, smile gradually fading away.

Your drink comes, you take a sip, yeah, it's kinda strong and you never really had the hang of it. You look me in the eye. Yeah, you're tired but there's something else there. God you look tormented. I see trouble in your eyes.

I take another drag of my cigarette, I don't offer you one, I know you don't smoke, even though you could use one right now. You're drumming your fingers on the table, my silence is making you nervous, because you know how transparent you are to me, the way I fix my eyes on you, simply staring at you silently.

Stop. That. Drumming.

As if you could read my thoughts you do. You take a sip of your drink and just stare into the glass.

"What happened to you?" I finally ask.

You look up and stare at me.

"Are you even still in there?" I ask.

You open your mouth to say something, but you stop. Even you don't have the answers anymore.

It's alright, drink up, we'll figure this all out. One day.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

And we continue to drink in silence, just like the familiar strangers we have become.

You can't kill them all

I have two bathroom doors okay? One faces the bedroom, the other one, the corridor. I love my two doored bathroom. Some people don't understand it and find it complicated.

I don't like those people.

Anyway, I'm peeing (sorry, too much info but you need to understand how vulnerable I felt) and the door facing the room is open (I live alone). And I see a fucking cockroach on my wall.

On. My. Wall.

As I'm peeing.

A few screams, tears and half a bottle of Aerosol spray later, that thing is lying on the floor, its legs up in the air and it hits me.

These things can survive a nuclear war. These things can do on without their head for days. Τι σκατά βάζουν μέσα στο Αεροξόλ και κόντεψα να πεθάνω μου λέτε?

Άλλο σκέφτηκα όμως.

What hit me was, there are some people that are just like cockroaches. They are disgusting, they creep up on you when you least expect it, they are usually in your business without being invited and it's almost impossible to be rid of them completely.

Some people can be so calculating and cold. And there you go, με το σταυρό στο χέρι, hoping, waiting for someone to recognize and most importantly, appreciate your value, your honesty and loyalty and reward it. But guess what; the society of 2014 we live in, is a fucking sewer. So guess who is at home and who can survive; cockroaches.

You can be the best, the noblest and most worthy of butterflies; honey, nobody is gonna notice because this is a sewer and no butterfly comes out of it alive.