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.


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.

At the gates of my heart

Many times I am a crutch for the emotionally mutilated, people overwhelmed by pain and drama, solitude and emptiness. For a moment, they share that with me… they reach out with their arms, to save themselves from despair – and show me the insides of their soul – people I know for a lifetime, people I’ve never seen before. When solitude is too much, their heart’s cry of suffering is searching for me.

What do you see in me, grieving souls? Why do you come to me, when my voice is mute to your pain although I can fully feel it, when my arms have no embrace to offer, because they are afraid? What do you seek?

I have no words of consolation, I have no arms to catch you with.

The gates of my heart are half open, I don’t know whether to have them open or closed. If I hide inside, I am alone. If I come out, I am alone among people.


Last week I traveled to my hometown. I found the time and sorted the books from my old bookcase. I thought it would be a considerate gesture if I made a small donation to the town’s library. Small town, small library. It will be appreciated.

I’m heading towards the main room of the library and as I’m passing by, I see Mr. Jonathan (journalist, not his real name, but let’s call him so) in one of the rooms, browsing through the newspaper. I want to go and say hi, but I remember I had written to him some time ago about my interest in a traditional women’s blouse – he knows a lot of people – and hadn’t answered to me yet. He will have to come to me.

The librarian is glad to see me, she smiles, she is happy because of my donation. Some psychology books, a book about tantric sex, a book on jewish language (I wanted some years ago to learn another language, but I gave up, now I’m learning an even more exotic one – I am terribly  attracted by everything foreign, different, new, exotic).

We talk. She compliments me. We talk trivialities. Mr. Jonathan shows up – I knew he would. My visit is a surprise (everything is surprising in this town where almost nothing ever happens, but at the same time, my favorite city in the world, the city  I will always love the most). He compliments me on how beautiful I am. We talk trivialities.

Him: When are you getting married?
Me (I look at him smiling  the same way a school teacher would look at a pupil who hasn’t learned his lesson for the day): Mr. Jonathan. You are asking me normal questions for normal people. I am not a normal person, I thought you had figured that out by now.

I never enjoy these kinds of talks, as if it is a talk about a recipe for bread. So, when are you going to throw the flower in? Everyone does that. This is how bread is made. I am baffled when it comes to people thinking this is what life is about. Living the expected. The social expectations. I am saddened and surprised at the same time, how everyone seems to be in a hurry to live this common pattern, as if it was an algorithm for… Really, an algorithm for what? Success? Happiness?

I believe that personal happiness in life is as unique to each person just like a fingerprint is. A lot of people don’t take the time to notice this, or even follow their own bliss. They never listen to themselves close enough to hear their own blueprint inside, that will guide them to their true essence, their real song of happiness. If you do, then that is they day you realize, you don’t have to do what everyone does, or when everyone does it, for any reasons whatsoever, but do what you really want to do, and only what is according to your own nature.

I browse through random books on the shelves. He wants to write an article about me in the newspaper. He says he enjoys promoting talented people. I smile. We speak. No, I am not ready yet (I don’t know if not being ready is the real reason, or the lack of pleasure having people write about me). I tell him. Not yet…



Ouroboros (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ten years ago, I had the same dreams, the same hopes, I was longing for the same inner experiences, the same places. Just like now, I only had my writing pen, but with it, I would paint worlds in whose cradles I would rest, until I would be close enough to touch those worlds with the tips of my fingers, to sink and disintegrate in them, fill myself with their essence and find my freedom.

The period that followed was somehow ironic, I fought for what I wanted more than ever, with unbelievable zest and stubbornness and at the same time, I gave up what I wanted the most, more than ever.

I gave up by escaping, by lying to myself, I gave up because everything seemed a grueling and meaningless, futile battle, I gave up by disparaging and riddance.  I made it, I detached myself. I gave up one suffering for much greater ones, but I wouldn’t have known until they showed up in my path.

Now I realize that all these years have been but a great detour, a circle in whose starting point I will soon reach again, and then I will be addressed the same question: Are you willing to fight until the end, to burn all ships and bravely step forward without looking back?