It wasn’t until I met you

it wasn’t until I met you
that blonde hair got a new meaning
that golden river had me
thinking of a new beginning

I surely needed one,
a new picture, different landscape
maybe it’s not falling,
but the want of an escape

yet what was I to tell you,
how was I to speak,
I was scared,
I was weak

and you loved him like a martyr
loved him like a saint,
a sketchy character
with a heart that’s faint

I always longed for the man
with a capacity to love the way I do
I didn’t know my golden river
that I would find that love in you

blonde woman



I’ve kept my love for you

I’ve kept my love for you
inside a handkerchief
I folded it and put it in a drawer
so no one could steal it
and the times would not
make its colors fade
I will unfold it when you return home
in the evening, with your backpack
I’ll breathe it and bathe in it

I soaked my nails in my essence
painted them in the colors of my heart
so I can sink them into your skin
as I hold you
so you will feel me to your core
and want me endlessly
until I’ll become one with you
until you are enveloped in me

You’ll be the land, I’ll be the sea.


Have we forgotten how to be women?

This post is not written by me. I’ve only translated it to english, because I think it delivers a very interesting message.  Down below you will find a link to the author and her blog.

grace kelly”Each time I watch an old movie, I look at the women in the past with nostalgia and admiration. And when I turn my eyes to the present, I realize women have forgotten to be women. They probably wanted so much to be equals of men, that they lost balance. They don’t know anymore how to be beautiful, educated, feminine, ladies.

They want to be pretty and they are convinced that to achieve this they must be thin enough and have big breasts. They want to be sexy, but they are vulgar. They confuse fashion with style. They don’t have personality and imitate everything that seems to be popular. Despite freedom of expression, there seems to be a lack of dressing appropriately, that’s why certain clothes and jewelry are worn anytime and anywhere.

Many times I have there feeling that a need for exhibitionism dominates, otherwise I can’t explain the display of personal things, the overdone outfits, the abundance of opulent jewelry, worn pointlessly worn, excessive make-up and bad manners. Even perfume is excessively worn and chosen as trends come and go. The hair is too red, too big, too curly, the face is mutilated by fake expressions. Too much pink, glitter and illogical accessorizing.


Many women are preoccupied  […] with the image in the mirror, at the expense of education and cultivating their spirit. They compare themselves obsessively with other women and become addicted to the approval of others.

They complain men don’t notice their inner beauty, but they only show their bodies.

And yet, they want to be beautiful, elegant, admired, women! They are convinced they would need a lot to become this, but they omit the essential.

Common sense is a fundamental criteria that should help a woman not become ridiculous through behavior and style. A woman with common sense respects herself and the people she talks to. She does not irritate others dressed inappropriately and negligence towards herself.

A elegant woman is always elegant, without any effort, because elegance is a part of her personality. […] She will not draw attention by being loud, will not laugh like a madman and will not make scenes in public. She will look discreetly and will not stare, she will not gesticulate with ample gestures. She will not rush, and will have a silent dignity that will make others respect her […]. She will not participate in degrading discussions and  will not answer to trivial or coarse remarks.

She will not go to obscure places […]. She will know when, how and what to speak. […]

A woman means simplicity, naturalness, discretion, tenderness, sensuality, warmth, good humor, sensitivity, inner beauty, she knows how to make herself pleasant and be a good example. […]

What happened to the woman that in the past would inspire poets and painters with her beauty, charm, and mistery? Where did the woman full of elegance, refined eroticism, the innocent woman, the spiritual woman disappear? ”

Since I am all about femininity, I mostly agree with this post, except the parts where someone should feel like they have a duty to make themselves liked by other people. I believe in being true to yourself, your real nature and who you are. Even if you will turn into a pretzel, there will always be someone who will not like you, who will not agree with you, who will always have a bad remark.

I also believe woman should not give up their charms for the sake of feminism and independence. We should not try to turn feminism into trying to become better men, as I’ve read somewhere, in a book (whose title I can’t remember right now).  I believe women should be feminine, but not give up being firm, or assertive for fear of looking masculine, nor should they give up their dark side ( C.G. Jung, the concept of ”shadow”), but rather embrace is, so they are born to fullness.

So, ladies and gents, what are your thoughts about femininity?

What are the most graceful and feminine figures that come to your mind?

What are the women you admire the most and why?


The beautiful man on my street

I would see him sometimes passing by, on the street where I live.  He was always  silent, pensive, his head was facing the ground, or he was captivated by the view. His almond eyes were barren.

Sometimes I would slow down a little,  just to have more time to look at his face and decipher on his history. He had an angelic, slightly feminine beauty. His dark hair long to his shoulders, that framed this angel face, contrasts with the porcelain skin.

I couldn’t understand why, I had seen sad people before, but I found his irresistible. I was tormented by a fierce curiosity, an insatiable desire to go and shake him, tell him… I did not know what was it that I would  tell him, nothing ever came to mind, but I would have shaken him, without saying a word, just to make the emptiness in his eyes go away.

One day, I plucked up the courage and said hi to him. He answered back, surprised.

”You have one of the most captivating face I have ever seen…”
”Do I?!”  He had a confused look on his face. He  would stare at me, looking for an explanation.
”I want to know why are you so sad.”

teaThis is how we got to share a Sunday morning, drinking tea at a local tea house.  He told me he lost everything, the girl he loved, his job, a decent connection with his parents. He wanted to leave and leave everything behind. He had nothing here. He was alone.

I realized then and there,  why his image haunted me so much, why I wanted to much to speak to him. He reminded me of me. I was alone too.

We were two lonely people.

”You’re so young”, I told him, ”so many things could happen! You never know what tomorrow will bring! All I can tell you it is that it will  bring you more of what you look at.”

He asked me how old I was. I answered him.

”I always appreciate the way a mature woman thinks.”

I wanted to laugh. He spoke as if I had not been less than a decade older than him.

”You too will have my age. Then you will think you are more mature in your thinking compared to when you were younger. But then you will realize it is not a big difference, that a part of you is still the same, that a part of you will always be eighteen-twenty.”

It crossed my mind that I could sleep with him – I was attracted to a part of him, and he wanted me, I realized that from the very start. We would have been two people that would have been less lonely for a few hours.   But we would have done that for the wrong reasons.

He would have searched within me a safe harbor in my strength, to compensate for his weak nature, and I would have found a fragment of a younger self, to nurture and teach. A fragment of me to whom I could have given everything I had needed years ago, when no one was there to offer anything. Things I needed so badly.

No, I was not going to be that. Not for him, not for anyone.

Goodbye, lover…

I’ve taken life by the reigns
ride my horse in a mad gallop
the mists of time, the prayers of imams
-glowing gems in my hair
on my naked body, love is veil
my eyes are the sword

I’ll sickle you mercilessly

like a pagan priestess,
Godless man, you’ve forgotten
your homeland, your creed,
you burned your soul as incense
as you turned into your own idol

goodbye lover,
leave, stranger…

The act of creation

PaintingIf I could describe in one word the act of creation, I would describe it as being painful. As grapes are crushed in order for them to offer their fragrant juice, so does the artist crush his or her own heart to lay on paper or on canvas, the nectar of their creation.

On the tip of the pen that touches the paper, the tip of the brush that reaches the canvas, there is God, and inside the artist, the demons, all of them, are unleashed. At the same time. Creating means hushing the hell long enough for the angels to sing.

You may be wondering why any writer keeps writing, why any painter keeps painting, why all this labor.

Just as an insect is drawn to the sparkling bulb of light in the middle of the night, in the endless darkness, the artist is drawn to creating, completely and inevitably. As the butterfly, the artist can let himself flashed by the blinding light, that will propel him in metamorphosis, in rebirth, or he will lose himself in the darkness and he will be dead to himself and the world. His life will not end at his death, but the moment he ceases to give life through creation.

If you would use one word to describe the process of creating, what word would that be, to you?

I love her, but … – On love and cheating (part I)

”I love her, she is one of a kind to me. She is the woman I will marry, without a doubt!”
“Then why are you cheating on her?”

He wants me. I do not know if it’s only lust, or is he fooling himself into a sham marriage, or both. I do not know whether I should feel flattered over his strong and obvious attraction towards me, or I should feel angry for his desire for me, a desire most likely stemming from instinct, a desire that is egoistical, with no regard for the feelings of the woman who loves him. A desire that is superficial, for its voluptuousness can only be born when its roots are deeper than a beautiful body or a beautiful face.

There is a sadistic pleasure that some women have, knowing that they are the other woman, that a man spills all his passion in their embrace, then he goes back to the one that awaits for him at home. They feel victorious. And why wouldn’t they? They’ve won the war… right?

Wrong. The only winner is that man. She, and the other, are nothing but collateral victims of this man’s selfish love for himself. Sometimes the other woman is an accomplice. This war, of the other woman, against an enemy that has done nothing wrong, an enemy that does not have even the slightest idea of what is happening is an illusion, the enemy is an illusion. Otherwise, the other woman, could never love the man, if she wouldn’t lie to herself.

His hand lightly touches my long hair. His voice shivers as he tells me how beautiful I am, ”not a mesmerising beauty” he adds, in a fit of sincerity, ”but you’re not like the others.”

”I can’t be like the others, I am like me.”

”No, it’s something else, there’s something about you.”

I laugh.

”I must leave.”

He grabs my hand, he doesn’t want to let me go. I continue to smile. I could shred him to pieces.