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.

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Marriage

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

Ouroboros

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?