Floating plushie

Life ends and be-gins — each time —You love againDaisywhispersHe loves me notDandelions trust the sky to fallTheir heads —The yellow sun.Spring blooms,winds;it scattered.In quest for timeYou havethe margins ( in the words of Danny Gregory)Old, fuzzy TVGot characterHigh Definition — platitudeA loose strand of hairStroking —the strong windhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2VhgA3PE3eQhttps://teacherluke.co.uk/2026/04/06/english-language-haiku-master-john-stevenson-interview-983/Photo: Personal Archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

(...)Adapting the coloured trend to every style sandwiched between flash-like memories, polaroid meteors on the visual map and rhythms, green themselves, and the sunsets as real as a drop of water dripping off the coat of a human being returning home after riding the rain, for the rain.Tangible pauses, sandwiched between action and no-actionNo prediction will ever tell you what is to come.You open a jar, using the knife with the fine edgeYou feel the ceramics of a gold plated Japanese cup, so light, the whole cup, with empty or full content, made as if light had spread the mud under its weight, making it almost imponderable - the repeatable, repeated muddy mess is what gives the weight its lightness.Bundles of good fortune curating existence.No one can really tell foundations lie solely on this sort of messy, repeating encounters turned into patterns.(...)Photo: Personal Archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Women are even more beautiful as they agebecause on their faces and bodies, butespecially in their hearts, all the flowers of the worldare pressed into...aging. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I was moving through time as if I didn't existWhile space reminded me of the record I amGrabbing me tightly, dancing me backwardsInto lights and darksPhoto: https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/flat-design-fairy-silhouette-illustration_28451739.htm#fromView=search&page=1&position=47&uuid=2958f8cf-f8f2-40b0-9660-8ce83857f9e8&query=Human+free Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

For all the people who are on the night train alone thinking about the beauty of the world - lonesome reflectionFor all the flowers that bloom after long wintersFor all the unsung heroes who were once villainsFor all the mistiest of souls who were once lost but now foundFor all the bloodshot nights and days that go untouched by loveFor all the cowards that will brave the fearFor all the boys and girls without a father figure, and a mom'sFor all those addicted to those betraying kinds of love and beauty and who don't yield in to anymoreFor all the momentum poets understand and loseFor all those people who will find love and for those who won'tFor all those that struggle with forgiveness and want to steer clear of hurtFor all those that fail to creep into the cosiest of don'ts and do'sFor all those that risk their lives to gain eternityFor the eternal, sacred time component orbiting around historical timeFor all the love left untouched, spread on the crumbs of humanity and the failure of a promiseFor all those unspread layers of niceties that hold true to a direct approachFor all the dappled sunlight that shines through trees in late afternoons while squirrels are playing and woodpeckers are hammering onFor all those slow trains that travel through the gorge through tunnels carved in stone, sort of time tunnels stuck as in a time capsule revealing bits of wonders - leaves and berries you could touch out of the train windowsTo your soul window that opens into other shut windows, soul windows, and does not care to shut but stays openFor the small towns, seemingly innocent and pure, when no soul is there to be seen in the early hours of the morning. Then, as the day is progressing, the town would eat away at its light while the dark would still dig the light out - rocks of the solid foundationPhoto: Personal Archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I was asked if I missed or healed from missing my momFirst of all, she is not dead in the sense most of us understand deathSecond of all, you cannot escape the most human example of being a human:miss, love, miss, miss love - to the extent of not coming across it.It's very human to be able to miss the one person that gave you life and light and love and would love unconditionally, the best she could in the ways she knew.I feel I have not yet consumed the bereavementor allowed myself to fall into the sentimentality of it allI have been too busy taking overI gave the only possible answer at that time:'I'm filled with so many voids that I don't feel any, or anything'I felt once again the loneliness of not having the right people next to meI felt sick and tired of people complaining of their fearful and unimaginative ways of livingthat sometimes reflected mineI felt emptied of love and sense and purpose, maybe because of myself spreading too thinon the people that did not reciprocateor were just uncapable of love and lovingIt's not about you I've kept telling myselfMake it about others - the love, not the lack of itHowever, I could but turn to myself when I had given myself too many times to the wrong people and almost never had the right ones who would stay, just stay and be a part of my lifeI didn't want to use metaphors for this -After all, it's a confessionof someone, apparently, selfish, thinking too much of herself, and way too often these daysPhoto: Personal archiveNote: The sound of the river is real, and, hopefully not disturbing Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

(...) in a beguiling sentiment that,as part of the lifecloth,in the most inhumanelyhumane way, almost undivinely divine,it is worth understanding: when lifeleaves the body, the prominent feelingis not of absence but of presence Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Light green replaced by dark green after a few steps in time Moses has taken.His return - she following suit, in his footsteps, going a little further, with confidence - the lightness in the younger age would give, in the wonders, in the makings.'Miss, do you miss...it?''The more you give, the less you take''Should this be a fair deal?''Cast-waiting as in cast-shadow'For years, not light at all, she's been questioning the 'take', whether anything, anything at all, will be hers, whether she's been foot-stepping, or step-footing life on her ownterms,terms;terms:whether her take on it would be the 'take' or just the 'give'.'Some will never have a fair deal, just a fair share of...''Never say never'Her return - moving forward, keep moving forward; receive, not take; give, not m...possess.Photo: Freepik Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

The lambs are dancingwhile rolling rocks on the shoulders of the hillsThey are singingwhilespitting salt on the bottom of the sea(...)they are dancing and in this dance there's us... ...... ..... . ... ... ..... ... .... .... ... ..................singingLiam Read's Photo on Unsplashhttps://unsplash.com/@liamread Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

HUMAN CONDITIONThey call it a heart. I call it the lack of it.(...)Your baby's hair grows. short Of ages of desire, Of the beat of innocence, of the last touch of candour.It grows.(...)Photo: freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Spare the sun the view it has on treesBarks that you peel as you'd like to get itwhy they don't complain (as we dowhen skin peels softly into ages of beauty unsure if only young age you'd call beauty)when their bodies fall to ground, to die, already dead or just moving into another state the micro universe feeds on(...)Photo: personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Old her crammed into her vanitiesslipping her hands into time's pockets.This pocket having as big events as chasing eclipses on a starry sky, or vice versa.Verse in, vice out.The pat on the shoulder from the child they used to be, a peek-a-boo kind of sign,with a grin on those small, freckled facesreliving it once again in wrinkled memoriessuffering from not finding the fair sharebetween the past and the future.Be once again in this together.The otherness is not a thing they climb the ladder foris not a thing that happens to manyIt is one almost no one strives for when there is as much as the future can holdInsane to remain restless when you need to rest from all the burdens, flat out - there is a voice that whispers.There is a little space unfilled, or rather filled with nothingJust when you decide to jot the square into a diacritical mark called roundness of a shape unknownFlattened the Earth once again into your hands, also called 'Mmasticated grass as the path flattens out'Called as in 'named after his father's treacherous behaviour'No saint is there to praise his doings.Spend as little as you can on thisSleep wrapped into your dreamsThat prevent you from taking actionwhen you wake up.Photo: freepik Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

A Man of Halves (Canibalove)He bites off the whole of her as if she was no halfHe eats her entirely as if she were no halfIt sounds terrible though it isn'tIt is a story where in order to exist you have toCANIBALOVEAs that is the highest form of love:There is no half way to hell or heaven(...)Photo: personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

(...)Not until neighing has become the voice of nature in the barking of the dogs,chirping of the birds and scattering of the windNot until you've admitted wholeheartedlyNot until you've disgraced yourself that you've been graced(...) Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

that's why dreams are...instead of dreamingof beingwho you're not, be you.Someone is taking a picture of youOf you next to a king and his queenMaybe it's you taking night snap shotswhile dreaming of becoming You. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

This horse has only one masterThis master has only one horseThey brush the skin off of each otherand eat its pores into the undulating Nature -closing the eyes, everything a Gaussian distribution -they never ride away withor eat it off -an entirely different story:as they inhabit dreamsas they ride the waves of fortune or misfortune,not knowing to tell one apart from the otheras they suffer the sheer cry-touch of horror,absence of the loved one brings about,coiled, forgetful of the nimbus of light at the end of those days.This master only rides this horse.This horse.Photo credits: personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Round us to the shape of the wombTo the cry it bestows on humanityas if the mouth of the tomb was birthinglight where the dark past of unrepented faultsinfused into the soft, fluid formof the body and soulwas glowing its contrary layers intoyoungsters, the mature and the old.Natural filters.And whether you fill or you(only) feelthe existence of past experiencesthe three folds on the swing of the universewill give you dimension.will teach you the wrongdoings by undoing them.Even if you hear it:"what's been done cannot be undone"your trust be not swayed!Face it, all up, all down if you have to,Don't be swayed!Clear the land as if you were clearing your throatAnd speak those words you're ever reluctant to speakBecause what's hidden, it's also what you're pastLocked and wombedBirthed into your being being youbeing mePhoto credits: personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

These pines will never fall towering overunkind buzzes of cars and people all togetheras they swing from side to sideteased but not humbled by the wind:they own this - heads raisedbetween the ground and the skythey can afford to differentiate themselves from humans(...)Photo credits: personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

She doesn't push for the future. She's been waiting.God has found a nest in her. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Before they started devouringas we know they have.(...)then sacred consciousnessyou're left with as you weep like a prophet(...)Photo credits: My sister's photo from her personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

there's something impossiblein every fine line of her bodyas age takes its toll and restson the only bone that unites the sky and the earth.Photo credits: https://depositphotos.com/photos/impossible.html?qview=13666763 Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

A door opens anotherwhile another door closes anotherwindow that opens a windowthat closes. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

"Tell me, A.G.!""Why is it that your shoes crushed the ants?""Do you hope to get seen someday?"He did not answer. A wry smile lit up his face as he went up to her... Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

(the first ever winter that turned into summer overnight)Her ancestors as if condemned, none of them entertained hope,but she suspended the warped war and soared up to the multicoloured moonbeams,living out the world's dreams as its youngest resident. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Biting the biting frostlooking into the sunwarm and golden-coated they becomeThe outstretched hand suspended in the airas if...Feeling with his gazethe crusty old cheek, wrinkled, soft, yet redAt the same time, as hard as rock, healthyunder the power of tenderness of a wide, innocent smile.The earthy cracks around the eyes,under the same bloom of thousands of skins - firm, glowing but also lined,those cracks of dawn when the day meets the nighthave called for a dream:Lift up your foot, shake off the earthy part of itAnd run and runAs you'll be going round the earth and back in thousands of suns' time while upon coming back to the the starting line this will have turned into a whole world for you.But as you run or come back, don't let it touch that patch, that forever-untouched patch which people call the sky beyond the silver lining,beyond the clouds, the same sky unaccepting of the earth's capacity to turn around in its wingsWhile all the while, the same old glowing but lined skin will understand that every wing has turned around the concept of crawling. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Love but You Lovetrees with their trunks moving too deep into the ground,or way up reaching further and further into a sky,never quite understanding the sense of direction when they choose to exist as they lend themselves for people to reachthe sky they're made themselves of while digging into their earth.Black, on white paper, on which the same people glue death to life.the unfilled space of your love is the promise ofthe future, that black hole of everything and every things,the backup of what is to come, what was denied, what was, what is, what has always been,never quite understanding why people struggle to get,when they've already been on both the giving and receiving end when what is true is trueor else, they have never been.Bigger limbs reach out of the sky-sized palmssuccumbing to the lost reality of us humansasking ourselves why being splendid does nottranslate into a chosen kind of beauty, but intobeauty itself as nature never asks itself questions.in the natural order of things,You should have known better thatfighting for love can be less forgiving than fighting loveAnd then you take the experience, make something extraordinary out of itin its pressed paperless taste of death mixed with lifeOn the other hand, all this fight has made you nothing less than love-worthyA love that on the revolutionary ladder of the giving end calling for the receiving end has taught everyone and everythingThat love exists. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Weightless, as if the sun has burntties, unburnt loving raw connectionsgiving people the nudge to move stairless climbs into what others might call the impossible resistance to power.Imponderable, he climbs the insides of the wrong stomach, rounded by taken [almost never given] pleasures.Ceased to be more than more. Never the same.Never before, always in the after.The sun would weigh the lines on human faces. Of those that looked straight in, bowed under its power while slaving the land.'The sun is only a reminder of what the night might do to the day,' he uttered in the liberating given [not taken] token of the pledge that we're on temporary grounds with every single earthen lock on the very life of his, theirs, hers, mine and yours.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

FishShe got on the local train, settled for one seat, no one seated right next to her. Within seconds, she discovered the next seat was utterly splashed with dry mud stains. Next, on the other row of seats, an old man, a fisherman, an angler, with a handmade walking stick, eating some bread or pastry that got him into a sea of crumbs. No swordfish.She wondered: could all these people be savage? Who could have left all the dirt behind on the seat next to her, had they been sitting with their boots on the seats, had they thrown their filthy bags on the seats, were they dressed in mud, had they carried all of it with the only intention to dump it on us?She then remembered about another train journey when she admonished a no-more-than 16-year-old girl eating sunflower seeds and spitting the hulls onto the floor. The girl almost silenced returned an angry gesture of collecting them. She thought then and now she should have gone about it more smoothly and have educated her with more kindness. If only she had met the old man before the girl: she would have gently and easily struck up a conversation about art since the girl seemed to be an art student, reckless, rebellious, though, as one could see, and would have given him as a subtle but bad case example. The girl would have eventually caught on to it, would have been awakened to common sense, and so she would have collected them in no time and no anger. Perhaps. That's how things played out in her imagination. However, reality was rather hurtful. As hurtful as the sound of music coming undisturbed from a loudspeaker someone carried out in the back, the loud ring tones of either the phone calls or notifications, games, and then the voices of people answering their phones and revealing half of their lives in the space of five minutes.With the book, which could have been a hook, on her lap, she kept on wondering. Could she be the savage, the one that didn't fit in? She felt people's common sense must have fallen victim to the lack of it. Just another sophism, she thought.Two more anglers, a man and a woman, in their sixties, got on at the next stop, also fishing for likes on social media after they'd been on a fishing spree. The man was too kind to her. The woman insecure. She wondered if those two could be lovers, old as they were. Well, people seek love all their lives. If only it were true love, not the kind that fills empty spaces, but the one that fits in.The gorge, the train was passing through while picking up passengers, was a place packed with all the stories anglers could tell, including the one of the same hobo taking the train as part of his distraction, as part of warming up in the cold weather by going on regular journeys. Some of the passengers knew him. Regulars. The man and the woman too. Maybe all the fishers on this route.She fished for something in her bag. A piece of paper: 'Today I'm going to eat some fish. Boned, deboned. Won't matter.'Credits for the photo and copyright belong to the podcast producer as part of her personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

As this is a reading of Haruki Murakami's short story "Concerning the Sound of a Train Whistle in the Night or On the Efficacy of Fiction", there will be no transcript other than the cover picture for the episode. I hope you enjoy the short story as much as I do. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

She'll find peacein the greens and reds and nothing in-betweenin the paper tissues for tears after tears that soak spilt water making it one with themin the blood nebulae that float magically in body tissues, broken, exploded into pieces, magnetically, kinaesthetically suppressed in zero gravity - stopAs she'll slowly elbow waves with legs stuck up to the kneesrotating pyramid mountains upside downin turquoise water sprints in the shape of unknown flowers at the mercy of another water - playfullyShe'll slowly move, embrace, feel the sandy rocks crystallised through the mouths of windsShe'll 'belly-button' the sounds the bowels of the earth make while resting on the rest of the world.She's been telling herself all thisWalking again, learning how to walkwith her old legs, old knees whose age no one could tell, still stuck, with hearts still there with a pain greater than imagined, still felt, and minds still falteringwalking as if she was learning to fly as baby birds doShe will find peace. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Born. Childhood. Raised. His adulthood not up to the bar. They didn't build themselves up nor their houses by mixing clay with crumbs of bread. How then? Sold their hearts when they left their lands. Sold them. All. Not a single dime of their soul left. Or maybe one. One flicker. Nobody's home.Intoxicated with untrusty behaviour. Possessed by all the people he had ever met.The only memory he didn't burn was his mom's fine smile. His father? - She was so scared to be giving birth so young. Yet, there she was. - He cherished her courage, but then she blamed her for leaving the land and him when he needed her the most. Betrayal. He borrowed her then-cowardice and set off on the road to self-destruction.Betrayed. Desire. Lust. Ego. Betraying. Himself. His true friend. And possibly love. He didn't do much. In fact, all he did was not try the impossible. Who would? Who could blame him? His lies, his concealment. Not even her. A force driven by love is indestructible. How many of you know that? She'd grappled with feelings of resentment, anger, hate long before she settled: she was no longer hurt, or damaged, or anything. Forgiveness doubled the force.He was yet to learn that beyond despair, beyond self awaits the other. Their true beauty reflecting on you. He didn't have to grab [they're not opportunities, they're beings], or consume with hunger. He would have to learn to forgive and love himself beyond despair, beyond self. To aim out of the same fear. He will learn to give without getting anything in return. And give.Love.Photo attributed to https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/royal-watercolor-valentine-red-background_1541387.htm Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

harassed down a lane. The setting sunthrough the dusty midsummer landscapeslipping past weary, unnoticed beauty,dissatisfied, cynical.The hopes of youth - ulcers arguing, speaking,self-absorbed, not even noticing how stubborn.On the crest of a hillock, the little creaturehurtled off into the forest: didn't bust, ran into, eyes closed, revived.-through the thinly treed forest, a patch of dark-green grass-Nestled its head between its forepaws, a shout:if you hang around in this wilderness, you'll have to find your own way back.No sound from the forest. Listened for another moment, lost in thought.The sun set: for a moment afraid it would try to escape. It showed no sign of fear at all.Alone in the forest, on a summer evening. Abandoned.What does one usually do in such a situation?gazed at the sunset's last road tenderly.refreshed, contemplated mulling overwhat had happened.unplugged, peacefully the night forest didn't return even an echo,splitting not a squeak:"got to get back home right away".This episode's cover photo credited to: https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/blue-oil-paint-strokes-textured-background_13462556.htm Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

They dragged him.They dragged him out of the woodswhen no one sawwhen no one was there to stare.Bogged down by no remorse.Drowned out in the noises logging machines makeand that could have drilled open even a heart of stone.If no one but them knew, conscience was more likely to feel clean.At least, this is what they thought.Tied to no mercythe six feet of him:he didn't have one mark, the one missing or buried,he was not like those stallions with a marking on their foreheadshe had marks all over his body, tattooed by the elements,the animals rummaging through meaty, fleshy layers resisting the biting frost,sniffing with innocence husk-like carcasses, empty, void, yet succulentat the crossing linebetweenwild and tamedwhere nothing ever stops as the spinning goes ontaking everything down to the last possible beginningwhen ghostly worms crawl back as before intotheir crafted hidingswhere hierarchical dissolutionis part of the evolutionary ladder - not for them-Because nature knows best.No time left.Be it the tree, the horse, the manThey all end up, or down.This episode's cover photo credited to: https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/top-view-background-beautiful-white-grey-brown-cream-blue-background_13191135.htm Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

They said that what was ‘us’ must die.The confession twirled over half of the city:half-asleep, half-naked.Half-truth.It spiralled into whisperswe hear every night before we go to bedwith someone else, or no one.It sank in so that sometimes I think I feel the ache of the water running through my body.70% - 60% - 50%:less water than in other bodies.Half-empty, half-full.It let the candle flames blow themselves out into a wish,just as the fire, to taste them,latched onto their greasy-bright light, dipped in its salty waters,burning in the dark tillashes tamed the whisper, embodied it, mirrored it, flickered with light.And there, in the stillness of the roomfluttering in the darkness, I stole the breathfrom the air and the night, their own light.It's what I will be then.https://www.littlebrown.com/titles/hannah-kent/burial-rites/9780316243902/#module-whats-insidePhoto credits:https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/beautiful-shot-wind-turbines-cloudy-sky-eiffel-region-germany_9184578.htm Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Threefold blossoms: tenfold more than tenfold.To some, evolution branches humanity out into existence.The hatchling of a dream: the perpetual movement of the species.Miscarea permanenta a vietii: visul pe care ultima geana de netrezire, de somn il atinge ca si cum ar sparge coaja unui ou.Waiting: the non-movement of movement.The noise in the mind -short-circuit- the straight line in life.In nature, corpses rolling in raptors' eyes reflect the sky: tearing off the flesh, the sky's tearing up.The night moth's freedom is viscerally acute as you hold the moth in closed hands.He was his own everything, yet she is his lost paradise.To meet God, to introduce yourself to Him, you won't stretch out a handshake nor will you bow. You'll only lend ears and knees will bend. You'll be praying.Words can bless or curse you, therefore you can love or hate them.Sing to nature and it will sing back.It's not the story that binds two people; it's what binds the story.You pass by. He raps as you do. It seems to be about you. Dedicated. And, then he calls out your name.Seek it, know it, preserve it, spread its wings but nothing of your essence too thin!I collect, I recollect.https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/652819/the-art-of-patience-by-sylvain-tesson/Credits for the photo: Personal Archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Presumably, precious cold isbiting the skin off of the Earth.Theirs, too.Even the faintest trace of windis strong on those rosehips that piercethe hand.Holding it out and looking at itpunctured from place to place,pain that says:'No, this time is going to be different.'As one wolf spider, a doting mother, carries its weightThey feel a tinge of regret.Threefold blossoms - tenfold more than tenfold.Photo credits: personal archive Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

If you want to know if somebody was loved growing up, ask them about their hair.She can't speak for little boys, but she assumes for them it would be how many pairs of hands they were ready to exchange.One for their mothers' wombs - the feathers of their intrauterine life - cool now, heated then. Another for their mothers' spine, around the waist and up, like ivy up the walls of long-held wishes, cooler, embroidered softly in a flipped reach for the neck, where another, in an embrace, like a tiny, two-sided necklace, would tip back, blindfold their mothers' eyes while growing ancient eyes on the back of their very palms, and cathartic ones on the front. Fingers, multiplied by two up to ten, would comb wavy into straight hair, and straight into wavy, or, in a glottal stop, would just be mesmerised by how wavy would stay wavy, and straight straight, how many other types of hair will go back and forth between being one or another, or just themselves, authentically themselves, untangling, untangling, untangling it, like any sacred melody, before leading the eyes, old and new, into foreseeing the intricate maze of weightless webs of womanly charms.Hair textures, tints' metamorphosis into colours, thickness, styles, accessories - nothing left to chance. No length predetermined, changing all the time, historical stages of roots, follicles and shafts. An extension of the primordial dermis, smooth with caresses, but also furred with cuts and bruises of another past, her hair is ultimately the only memory left of the rare animal she was while growing up. Deep-rooted, pappus-like, sprouting florets blown by the wind, her hair has evolved over the span of zillions and zillions of seconds into the grey strands she can see now.No scientist could possibly ever tell that evolving towards extinction can be called evolution, except for the greatest ones who have gained clarity in the perfection of life."I've been thinking about not dying my hair any longer" is the moment she has turned her own history on its head. The same head growing the same hair roots. Different colours, shades, textures, styles, accessories or no accessories.People around her can swear they have heard a different kind of story. This one person, for example: " She had said she'd be back from her son's house by nine, but it was eleven, and soon it was midnight, without a word from her. I tried making her change her mind before going there, but I was met with fierce determination. She was going to tell him the only story he wasn't able to grasp after he had moved into adulthood. She looked dishevelled but convinced this time she had the right proof. Her white hair blowing in the wind..."Background photo created by freepic.diller - www.freepik.comhttps://www.freepik.com/free-photo/little-white-flowers-lie-brown-hair-curls_2612550.htm#page=1&query=hair&position=12 Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Inside a giant grape,A safer world pulled outa cascade of lace, gentle blues, heavy redsconcrete telephone poles on top ofpaper-cut telephones huddled togetherA lightning-rod, distant holes,the white skin of winking and crying lightsbobbingdistant'there's more over here'the lights of home, elegant buttwo-dimensional and thick-skinnedperfectly obvious, faded pockmarkson the cheeks of houseslike a melody growing taller'Doesn't it feel, I dunno, special?'I gazed toward the floating docks,clusters of sailboats tied off to the dark, summer sea'They withstand anything.'Strips of colours twinkled all aroundthe sweat leaking off the summer night, the tight noises and the late breeze.In no time, they started the descent andI could see this layer, faint and tired, super quiet.I just stuck out my hand to grab it:'It's like picking grapes.''A “found poem” is one that is created using only words, phrases, or quotations that have been selected and rearranged from another text. 'https://www.facinghistory.org/resource-library/teaching-strategies/found-poemsPhoto credits:https://www.freepik.com/photos/grassGrass photo created by freepik - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

NewA seed, a bud, a leaf, a blossom - the tiniest possiblecarries strong (still) the heart of the EarthThe feeble beating sounds of what is yet to comeNot long ago forgotten in the rooted beliefthat what is once dead is dead.While you're watering the perspective of one leaf,another plant has lost it to the frostbecause in your recklessness, you've entirely moved past what death could bringthe realisation that the end is there when it's not.You're likely to make more mistakes like this oneAnd then make some more, but you'll never lose sight of what you've learned.When the lessons learned teach you more about life, you will give no advice.You'll stop talking even to yourselfYou'll stop listening to those thoughts telling you not to listenYou'll just be here-nowWith every new beginningIn mid-winter or early springin the awakening dawns of summers orthe changing golden leaves of autumn,despite seasonal endings and beginnings,in spite of any remembrance, memories, or deaths.You'll liveAs purely as life lives with all it lives. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Could this cooking day be just a bad hair day, one telling you to stay out of the kitchen?Listening to a story about burnt food and then getting into the kitchen with the confident air that this is no way going to happen to you today, not today, since you'll be extra cautious and won't leave the kitchen until the food is off the stovetop, would be enough to set you out for the cooking process.I'm one of those people for who the food is a mere necessity but having the secret wish that I could one day know what being a glutton/gourmand feels like and what would be like if my taste buds blossomed and thrived on delicacies or if I whetted my appetite (for cooking) by feeding off TV food programmes or travelogues that focus on nutrition, diet, unusual and special recipes/food. As I was saying, food is there just to fill my stomach, to help me get ahead with matters of the heart and brain, to be read as the soul and the mind, since these two are the most important in the mere existence of someone like me.All until food becomes a whole experience in which the smell and taste evoke more than a simple cooking process; they can actually take you back to a time you remember fondly. The whole food experience is in the hot bread you used to gulp down as a kid, as dangerous as it would be for your stomach, a danger that could be surpassed in intensity by the dirty hands with which you break its heel before getting on with the rest of the bread; it's when you cook with someone you love and the smell, the taste of that food will forever stay with you; it's when you help out you mom, whisking egg whites until stiff, chopping the veggies, washing the dishes as you go, listening to the advice she is always giving about how food should be cooked, ignoring it until you get older and realise you don't know how to cook this and that, yet remembering the moment clearly; it is in the ripe fruit, mature veggies, dry seeds and herbs that have taken in the sun, the soil, the rain, the wind, and some more. And some more...I wonder if moms that cook daily for their families have time to stop and think about this. In this respect, we are probably the same, food is a necessity. However, moms might think cooking is a burden at times, and food a necessity, but their burden gets lifted when they see the happy faces and full stomachs of the family members and hear words of appreciation or requests for seconds (a second helping); the whole experience turns into joy and they refill their passion or creativity.Back to my cooking experience or let's call it just a cooking day: I was there, the food was there too, but I burnt the garlic sauce; the crunchy garlic had a toxic edge to it; however, I decided I could still eat it. Later on, the apple pie turned out a disaster worth recording, which is what I have just done.Picture attributed to pikisuperstar - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

The Future Perks of Being Old and CrankyA nonsensical story for which you'll have to use all senses, including the mind (admitting the mind is one of the senses).The heart has a seat at another table looking closely while coming to its senses.Co-authored with one of my best friends, whose sweet name is Adina: here's to you!In the final hours of a perfectly fine timeline, no one would have expected such a future set out for us as the perfect end of a perfectly nonsensical life. In all its seriousness, life doesn't have a meaning. Not one you'd expect it to have. Life is worth living, no matter what. I'm quoting you. Yes, you. Any person alive and kicking, or bound to become one, like a new baby out of a mom's loving womb.One day, we wake up as white as paper and as creased as a morning bed sheet or maybe our skin would be as white and creased as a morning bed sheet. It's still morning, we'd still have time to live it up when the bed is not the one we've slept in for years. It's a new one. It's a new room. It's a new dawn. You probably know this last line. If you don't, sing it and you'll know it.Scones and crumpets, us, sat next to each other, sipping at a cuppa, pouring philosophy and fantasy into it instead of sugar and milk: two peas in a pod, warm clothes, hanging on the armchairs - the clothes, not the peas, or maybe the clothes on us, as, finally, you're skinny just as you've longed for all your life. As you will have known by now, life can treat you well and give you presents at the right moment; sandy beaches, wouldn't say no to shingle beaches, either, since the walking stick would still be one 'foot' closer to the waves and the sand would not be a grabber and stuff it down its throat. A sand glass.The smell of salty water and medicine...You can get cranky. The daisies are still not there because my nieces are late. We are not. Rebelling against time, we're still compliant more than we'd wish. We're not late. We've never been. We'd still wander dreamily in possibilities. This is what the future is.Flower photo created by wirestock - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

II've got my eyes from you...As you're lacking full vision now, I would give you mineif I could force it out of me, if I could truly give it up for you, if I didn't alter the 'yes'.IIAfter the rain, the river rhythmically pumpssoul into the city:Has crept inside its mouth hissing [from the tangled roots], skirting around,growing occasionally downstream, lurking at the borders, drifting upstream.All the blues on Earth smell like the sky and the oceanWoven, swum, walked in the hardly spoken lute songs:High is the hum towards the points of the compass, a little bit more to the east.Tattooed sharply in the water droplets that fill the air, moving on faster, among devouring, sleepless monstersof underground raves, those empty voices that make it clear:no one you can think of is on that path, the only one left.IYet, you know better: the city's got its soul, its promise.Your lot knew it already: you were the child of the ever-after.They didn't tell you, they didn't want you to know.They were too scared.'I'll give it back to you': the vision.http://www.breakingtheglassslipper.com/2020/02/20/five-questions-with-rym-kechacha/https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48997958-dark-riverCredits for the photo go to:https://www.freepik.com/photos/waterWater photo created by wirestock - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

My Home is not a HouseThe Utopia in Dystopia (The) promises we make to our childrenAre the ones we ve already broken to ourselvesBy and byYou ll get used to it.You ll scream it and fist it that you won tChase time override decisionsswearing blind that the sweat of the days when they wake up under the bite of the nightswill gauge life the thick on the groundAnd end upShovelling the bones unearthing themWhenThe body turns to dust and you start hearing the greatest scariest fleshiestdecomposition symphony the largest dimension of a life livedinthe moment or otherwiseWhenHands joining in raising quickly belongingan old man and a woman nakedly true to something unanimously uniquediverse uniquenessYoungWhenTwo mirrors double split same wall same people same roofSame reflection? Do they ever swap places?Is it themselves Or is it themselves?Mosaic dynamics counter-tops overflow surfacesEmbeddedSleepingSlipping away from itSheeting...Theory precedes authority and the little split in it is the only one honestEntirelyThis house is too old and sickened by its landmarksWhen is Nowhttps://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/house Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

The Liaison Words'The' is the Missing WordOld and young, white hairs grow wrinkles on the skin of the animal. Under my eyes-hallowed caves. Raw face time, locked state, and memories are seriously forgetting the past. I choose to wonder at the one. Change? A rogue promise hides breaking, sealed up a sleeve, stopped to become another; a pencil's mark pulls the heart of this sheet of paper, scraping at its loose end.Fear bears consequences in silence: nook over flowers - green, red, orange. Risks and uncertainties are a lifetime spell of a stranger.Despite established development, openings emerge.https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/prose-poemhttps://www.freepik.com/Background vector created by veraholera - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

The lump in the concrete...only justHollowing its cave-like mouth, in deep-hanging crevicesGrass on, and under it,scattered dandelions, whose severed heads are a song to their scaffold-stemslying like sacrificed soldiers on the battlefield.Moving onto the sight of the second and third squadronof white-haired, giraffe-necked brothers-in-arms that stand at the lions' gatein an inter-galactic war.This field is open to more than one ending.The hunter - out and about.A sheepish walk, more of a sneak,In a world soon populated by uncaring beings that could get their hunter down in one shot:betrayal of the underprivileged, caged in domesticated looks, trapped to no escape.Those loyal to death, and, admittedly, to each other, will continue to sing-As black-feathered as they are-And while this (living) flow has the mind of a thousand breaths and the soul of a gasp,once the world has come to its middle ground, still green, still young,it will die into a new one!https://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/backgroundBackground photo created by wirestock - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Rising Moon, Falling MoonWrapped up in her full-roundness, a non-existent curtain of night clouds draped over, right at the sunset point, where the human eye meets the horizon (after removing the rest of the sky, in an out of sight, out of mind approach), a full-grown new moon, well-behaved, as one could tell by her decision to glare and silvery shine on the dreams and desires of the ignorant, oblivious earthlings, is scanning the whole world. Not all her countless sisters have been the same: some too shy, hiding behind their cloud guards, some arrogant and overbearing, some impersonal...Between dusk and dawn, people are likely to wonder at the weird ball, woven by light, what it will be like this time.Which eyes will see what?You, as curious as those earthlings, look down without looking down on them. You let some see your face, allowing them to brag about it to others. However, you care the most about their warmth, and rejoice at those who smile at you so that you go from dim to bright in your moonbeams. On the other hand, you wish you had them too. The feelings. That's why, you sometimes let them think there's a rabbit that lives in the moon, or a whole different world for the domineering and conquering type of people so that you keep their fascination ongoing. And yours too.Forest photo created by paymphotography - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Fishing A walk down the memory and imaginary lanesI don't know anything about deep or 'shallow' sea fishing and don't think I ever will (firsthand, I mean) unless the mountain in me takes a plunge into one sea. I've recently read about low-tide fishing with its tarred twine, fish traps, fishing nets, outcrops, bladder vraic (most probably, more commonly known as bladderwrack, vraic being seaweed from the Channel Islands), the prawns or shrimps, lobsters, conger eels, razor shells, and other fish or marine animals. Boats have their lures, too. Rowing, skimming, feathering, and sculling altogether still make no sense in my mind but they do stir my imagination, get my feet itchy, tickling my curiosity while oozing adventure.Although river fishing is no more familiar to me than sea fishing, rivers are. I remember my father recounting once how he would explore the bottoms of rocks in his village river, looking for trout, joined by searching parties of kids of all ages, in somewhat cold waters; however, the joy of searching and capturing the fish far outweighed the slight numbness in their feet. His experience becomes a bit mine and is also the closest I've ever come to trout fishing.And, thus, the movie "A River Runs through It" has popped up in my mind (not the more classic The Old Man and the Sea, although that could make the subject of another episode), a movie that revolves around a river, fly fishing, and a family in Montana, adapted from Norman Maclean's book with the same name. There are so many great quotes from both the book and the movie that I'm going to stop at the one that gave its title."Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."Shall I not say that at that moment he had reached perfection? He matched his strength up to that of the river. Pure beauty. Otherworldly beauty.What's left of fishing is a man. In the quest for themselves. A man in the quest for another.Reference sources:https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105265/https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/49325401-a-river-runs-through-itSidenotes: man = a person of either sexPicture credits: http://www.freepik.com/Designed by Freepik Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

If Bluebirds Existed...Credits for the idea to the Korean movie When the Weather is Finehttp://asianwiki.com/When_the_Weather_is_FineIf Bluebirds existed, they would be the sunset with a golden halo in between dark blue wings, a stratified sunset launching thoughts as rockets; they would have the shape of cloud castles, up an imaginary mountain, on top of our realities, the real mount, that of the light coming in through the peephole, unannounced, breaking the darkroom into specks of light.If they existed, we wouldn't be looking for them, as no one would look for snow in spring, and yet, here it is.If Bluebirds existed, you wouldn't see their wings battering the air in a creamy sound as everything would be brought to a standstill.If they existed, you wouldn't set off to find the feathers floating down on the whole of you, casting a spell.If Bluebirds existed, they would look nothing like the real ones.If they existed, you would feel the cold, the dark, the pain, but all that wouldn't deepen.If Bluebirds existed, you could be sitting outside, mulling over an upsetting thought, disheartened, but the hot mug would do it for you, as a friend joins in and you look together at the pouring rain or falling snow.If they existed, the falling petals will remind you once again that they are as beautiful as in full bloom, only a bit sadder.If Bluebirds existed, you would feel no longer lonely when another lonely soul feels you.If they existed, a humble background would matter not, as long as it soars.If Bluebirds existed, you would no longer wonder, you will know, and if that were too much, you'd only believe it.If they existed, the choices that you've made would make you no less happy as you carry on... loving the wound and those who inflicted it, in self-forgiveness, as the Wise Great Fathers say.If Bluebirds existed, the frozen cherry blossom petal would bear the heaviness of a world we don't know.If they only existed... Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Love-bound or A Call in the Middle of the NightLove is born lateAs the sun rises, and so it sets uponthe darkest nights.Love is born late - out of despairbroken heartsmissed opportunitiesunforgivable sinsaccepted truthstransfixed returnsunlikely repairs.You don't have to reason with itThe heart has its own reasons.Love is born lateWhen no one expected it any moreas everything seemed doomed.Love is born lateAs crows join in the singing choir of birdsAs one boy tames the starsOh, gentle sunshine!Love is born lateAs someone turns the doorknobAnd smilesAs they're not angered or in disagreement with themselves -concession for the sake of affectionLove is born lateWhen you get a call at mid-nightTelling you to wake up.https://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/people Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

The Onion GirlPeach Boy (if you haven't heard the tale of Momotarou, now would be the best time to look it up) would be happy to know there's an Onion Girl out there unless he was too afraid she would make him cry. Peach Boy was born in the Land of the Rising Sun a long, long time ago, in immemorial times, while Onion Girl comes from another time, from our modern times when anyone has their own super stories, Instant stories, followed by countless Instant friends, who never get to peel the onion. However, Onion Girl is all about layers waiting to get peeled off, hence the name - Don't get confused that she's a girl, or that we'll be talking about a story when boy meets girl, and you'd be in for some romance, when, in fact, we're not. - You may call her an atypical girl of these times, as her layers, tightly surrounding one another, not airtight, breathe and let you breathe. Let you wanna take a break from all the stories you've been wide-eyed for, just because they exist. She will teach you about the top layer as the most important one, as she slowly or rapidly opens up when she befriends you, or, crudely put, you got befriended by her. You might end up with one layer in your hands and want to make a run for it, but you know you've still got time, as another layer comes off in your palm. And, then, another, and another. You feel like crying, just because she made you a part of those layers, now lying barren in the bin. Still wanna run, but get drawn closer. She cautiously let you move forward until you run to return to your stories, to continue to be a part of your super world. You'd feel lonely with only those friends, but as you befriend her, you'd almost feel like Little Prince (go look him up too). If you haven't already found at least one Onion Girl or several of the kind, then this story is for you.https://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/backgroundBackground photo created by freepik - www.freepik.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.