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The life we live Us and them, an endless game. Everyone with his hopes, his disappointments, his dreams, his few delights within his endless loneliness. Everyone individually with his own researches. A continuous search among the anonymous crowd for something that many times, even we, ourselves, don�t know very well what it is. And we live seeking� |
| They started to move as well. They tried to convince themselves that there is a heart inside them -like in me- and that they can love as well. They could never manage to speak of course but I understood everything from their movements -it wasn�t difficult- especially when they wanted me to take them in my hands, which was most of the time. But one morning when I woke up, three years later -it was not April- I also searched for a hand to touch, to feel a heart beating the same as mine. All I found was a plant, soulless without any scent, without any flowers and that smell was a creation of my imagination. I saw from the window people passing indifferently. I had forgotten how to speak and I could not call them. I ran down the street and with stupid gestures I tried to make them understand that I am a human being too and I need them. They could not understand. I started crying, hating flowers, nature but when I walked into my house I caught myself watering that pot again. |
| Routine Yesterday we were two strangers. Today, cowardly said hello. Tomorrow strangers will find us again. |
| Blood spots You wake up on an April morning and you search for a hand to touch. One heart, whose eyes you want to always see, to read, because in a while you know even this one will stop beating, because you aren�t sure of anything. The days are passing� Even me I�m not sure nor is anyone else around. |
| The days are getting longer. You grow up with it in your cold green house you learned to live, where I found you. You will bloom again, I tell you. I grew up as well from above, looking, observing, judging, feeling and hurting my self much more. It�s difficult to escape from there. As comfortable as you are you hurt too I know, the surrounding thorns wound you. You will bloom again later on you may feel pain again. Don�t worry you will bloom again. You are always a flower though, soft as a flower and when I learnt how sensitive flowers were I understood you as well. I started to come closer to them slowly-slowly to speak to them without expecting an answer, I got used to it. I learnt to love them, and probably they understood that. When I touched their buds with my fingers, they started to open their petals, regardless of time, even at night. |
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