There is more to every story,
Or so I have heard them saying.
I always gaze into the infinity of the sky,
Observing the sky change its hues at different times of the day,
Seeking answers to a particular paradoxical question -
What about them?
I think in a state of haze.
Are they really happy?
Maybe we are misunderstanding everything;
Maybe they are in the wrong places;
Maybe, they want their fates to change.
Maybe, all that we perceive is them deceiving us.
Maybe, out there is an enigma
Full of anomalies and conundrums -
An obscure love story,
of Apollo and Selene.
Maybe they are in love
But can’t make it past their differences;
Maybe they are lost,
And have strayed from the path
That leads them to each other.
Maybe the dusk and dawn
are their surreal infinities;
Maybe they set and rise,
not for the world,
but for each other.
Maybe the stars glittering,
in the oblivion of the dark night,
are the tears that Selene sheds.
Maybe, Apollo makes the sun burn,
in his jealous rage,
since everyone but him can admire her grandeur.
Maybe the eclipse is the time when
One’s love overpowers the other’s
To create an amalgam of untold stories,
None of us will ever hear.
Maybe those spots on the moon are the impressions
Apollo’s lonely heart has suffered.
Maybe when the thunder sound fulminates
In the foggy, clouded sky,
It is Selene crying to the heavens, mourning in agony.
When the sun gleams through the canopies,
We rejoice, Placing it adjacent to many heavenly pleasures.
But maybe, above there, past the clouds
the two just hurt inside.
Maybe they are grieving,
Mourning wordlessly,
Alone in the wilderness of their kingdoms,
Unnerved at the thought
of how long it would take for everything to fall into place.
‘Romeo and Juliet’ was a classic literature love,
But this is so much more -
Love that is pure and heavenly;
Love that is silent,
Yet speaks out so loud and clear.
Love, not the whole world could witness.
I'm stuck in the same spiral staircase again. No matter if I go upstairs or down, I keep coming back to the same spot. A light bulb overhead shines overhead, and it's the only light in the whole place. If I just put a foot on a step of the stairs, it immediately gets turned off and I left in utter darkness. Then I only have two choice - to get back to my place or walk to the next floor in this darkness only to find myself in the same spot again. After thousands of attempts at escaping this place, I've finally chosen the wiser way - to stand still under that night and wait for this nightmare to be over. I don't know how I know this is a nightmare, but every time I have it, I know that it's not reality.
I take a few deep breaths trying to make myself comfortable in there while I wait to wake up. The light slowly moves from me to a door a few feet to my right. She steps out and slowly walks to me. She'd be just an ordinary woman if she hadn't shown up before in my other nightmares, or in my hallucinations. I step on the stairs and the light goes out immediately, and I hope she can't get me either as long as that light doesn't get me.
The most radical thing you can do in this world, in this era of paranoia and hate, is to love without frontiers. When you love with a passion that defies logic, that is stoic and steadfast, the changes are far reaching and profound. So be a radical and radicalize others - we are a social species born to love and be loved. Love people of other races and use language that shows you love how they are, who they are, their culture and way of life. It is a psychological hug, a way to show what you truly see when your heart is your eyes. Tolerance is for idiots, love is smart.
As much as she tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from her throat in the form of a silent scream. The beads of water started falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. She hit the wall and tried to scream, but her voice was melted by the sound of the place. The muffled sobs wracked against her chest. The world turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything was gone. The last painful emotion slammed against her before she lost the feeling of feeling. Everything darkened into nothingness as she passed into the oblivion of unconsciousness.
We ride this silver cocoon over the earth, our eyes on the trees that grow in their infinite patience, leaves breathing out our oxygen, bathing in the same light as we soon will. I feel the movement of the wheels over the road, following the curves and greeting each slope in its smooth way. These bus rides are my meditation, a chance for my thoughts to greet the horizon, salute the clouds and ready my feet for the day ahead.
Amid the wheat, amid the soft golden ears, moves the unseen wind. It moves my hair and sea of summer grass all the same. In these moments on the farm there is an eternity in each second, a joy that comes in the free birdsong and a steadiness to my heart and soul. And supporting all this is the humble Earth, that sweet rich brown that brings all this in concert with the sunshine. If I could wish for peace within this human body and all around, I could wish for no more.
And it became the fashion in those times for the rich to buy homes for the poor. They got them cheap and the charities made them beautiful inside and out. The homes were then either donated or put into long trusts so they would always be homes for those who needed them. It was true investing, investing in what really matters to our nation, our kids and their parents. As for accumulating interest? It did. But it was the right sort of interest, that in the wellbeing of our hearts and the mending our our society. As things turn out, a "Housing act" can be an "Act" of generosity and nothing to do with the law. I guess it became part of our "lore" instead, part of our instinct for fairness and doing right by each other. We all cried from happiness. There were back to back renovation shows on the television showing the homes that were made so lovely and with such love. We watched the families move in, the relief only a sense of home and security can bring. I think we were born anew in those times, everyone of all faiths and backgrounds "mucking in." Those were good times, that transition. We got to feel good again and that had been missing for too long. Nobody cared about the "rich list" anymore, the only list anyone talked about was the "homes or land donated list" and they were new superstars in their own way - the ones who chose giving and showed that love was the more powerful force within them.
As my dreams linger, dancing in the way that dreams do, I arise to the light of the new day. My feet are ready for the ground, for whatever comes my way. Soon the greetings begin, the chorus of voices in my home, each as sweet as the birdsong.
All that could be seen in front of her was the silhouetted dark shape of the rising moors, rolling on for miles and visible up until a touch of emerald light scathed the horizon. In the darkness, the unexpected scent reached her, of honey- heather- and- gorse bush that seemed to be embroidered into the very landscape. Something sounded against the slick, slightly damp tarmac and an auburn fox was suddenly visible. The frightened creature stared at her with it sharp, noble eyes as it was unveiled from its cover when in the dark, smoky bitter blue sky, something shifted and the entirety of the rolling hills was all of a sudden bathed in a whimsical silver. The air there could be sold for millions in a polluted country, and a glimpse of the moon and of the stars that seemed to lilt in and out of existence could inspire anyone who is lost. She was bewitched by it, intoxicated on the strange yearning that it brought her; the place brought with it the happiness of freedom and also the romance of melancholy found within old classics, poems and music. Light.
The first thing you'd see is a typical honors kid - large dark eyes behind blue rimmed glasses, holding all the bookish knowledge. The girl's curious eyes asking for more, conflicted with the tight smile silently begging to be left alone.
She'd wear her dark straight hair up in a ponytail, with a pink baseball hat. With the pink sports backpack, she'd deceive anyone. But her scrawny figure in an over-sized men's sweatshirt, underneath a denim shirt from Goodwill, with a pair of jeans ripped from overuse - told a different story. So did her punk boots picked from garage sale.
She hid her scars under thick spike bracelets, another piece that did not match with the silver heart locket hanging from an unusually long necklace.
Even with all the pieces roughly glued together, she had yet to find out which was her real face.
In a species that role models look upward for the cause of bullying, upward into the power structures and the methods of control - overt and covert. For there in the ways of behaving, in the language, in the patterns of respect or disrespect the elders show (and as is shown in the stories and media), there is the cause. Add to that a stressed out society often locked into the primitive brain, reactive rather than responsive, the stress trickling down to the youngest... and there you have it... bullying is the inevitable result of a harmful environment and the result of a failure to properly love and protect our children with soulful and dependable leadership.