Your Love Is Poetry (postcard no.1)

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Love is divine feeling and belongs to Beloved One, Whom plant the hidden seed within humans hearts. It has a great opportunity to grow, if we water it regularly and if we expose it to Light. Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote:

“No man can be called friendless who has God and the companionship of good books.” 

Regardless aforementioned, people are seeking for other people's love and affection. Each of us needs an ally on our path. We need someone to hold our hand and to whip off our fear of death, fear of pain and nevertheless, our fear of transience. 

So we love; we love individuals whom inspires us to be better person, those ones whom trust in us, the ones whom admires us and perhaps, they love us too.

The purest love shall be unconditional love, but I am doubting human's capability to maintain a course of cherishing such a profound emotion. Unfortunately, above everything else, we are simply humans, therefore, we hold an expectations and arrogance, not understanding clearly against whom; against other person or against ourselves.  

More poetry is needed indeed. But, we need to read it from another angle. We need to gravitate towards the idea of being the author, rather than the muse. Being the one whom is inspired with eternity, with unconditional love, with God, with pureness, with simplicity of someone's daily habit, with someone's appearance or someone's inner vulnerability.   

In order to feel love, at least the part of complexity that love contains, we need to expose ourselves, we need to reveal ourselves, we need to allow for our hearts to be touched and fractured into the smallest peaces by others.  

Because you cannot learn how to feel, neither how not to feel. 

Therefore, you cannot choose whom to love; you can only dive into love or ignore it once when you become aware of your emotions. 

You can read the poetry, relate to it and analyse it, but once when you start to wish you wrote it instead of wishing that it was written for you, you will be capable to contribute towards unconditional love. 

I trust humans are believers, I trust humans are tender lovers, but I am witnessing the lack of honesty, the lack of braveness, the lack of understanding, the ignorance and arrogance. Unfortunately, love does not live in those hearts, neither the empathy. Some people are building empire of emptiness in their hearts. They are delusional while thinking that that is a shield which will protect them from harm. 

To be touched by love, the one needs to experience the tears of sorrow as well as tears of joy.  Let us be moved by divine force; moved forward to understanding of existence, of beauty, of present moment and

death. 

Love is poetry and shall make you cry. 

Hidden meaning behind the truth and a man within me

Men and women are using words differently, even when they are trying to express similar feelings, ideas or fears. I write and I talk as a woman, what I am, but I prefer a men way of using language. I find it to be more reduced in terms of being more clean, precise and honest. There is a theory that men are using more of their commonsense, while women are more focused on their emotions. As much as this perspective is referring to science (if anyhow), it seams like stereotype to me. 

Within my point of view this simplifying of perspective is on the same level as the idea that pink is a color for girls, while blue is reserved for boys. I love blue, I am blue, and nevertheless, I look very sexy in my marine blue short spring dress. 

I have a problem with women's need for complexity. They love issues, and they can spot them all around themselves. If there is no problem, there is an issue, off course. He did something or he did not do anything. He called or he did not called after all. He did what she wanted him to do, but he did not do it 'her way'.  

Then the hidden meanings! It is disturbing to analyze every men opinion or small talk, but that is what friends are for, right? It seams to me that women establish this general belief that all men are poets. No one would appreciate it more than I, but unfortunately, the men are only painfully honest and what they say it means exactly that; there is no hidden meaning. If he says he is not interested, that most certainly does not mean he loves you but he is afraid of commitment. Please, learn that rejection is a natural part of human relations and it should not affect your self-esteem.  How is different when you reject a man and when a man rejects you? Do not be a hypocrite. 

You see, I am not better then other women, but I am surly more honest and probably more brave. To tell you the truth, that did not took me anywhere need understanding; it only made things more difficult for me and for my potential partners or the one whom were my partners.  I am a women with the male principals; It is a weapon of mass destruction. 

In one of my very important love stories and partnerships, a man told me in affect that I am not a woman; that I just look like a woman, but that essentially I am a man in woman's body. Due to my hipper sensible nature (surprisingly, it gets on well with the man in me) and due to the fact that this words came from my loving partner, they deeply hurt my feelings. But, the main reason why something which was said in affect was able to hurt me is the truth in those words. Only you can be onto your inner truism.  I am the truth addict and I respect to meet the truth, even when it is opposite of what I expected to learn. 

So, face yourself first of all. Then you will be able to respect yourself and everyone and everything what surrounds you; including other person opinion or other person perspective.

Most likely, there is a man within me and I cherish him a lot. But, in the other hand, it is obvious that there was no man within my ex partner; otherwise, he would face me.   

Unconventional family, Tolstoy's opening line and Disneyland

Thanks to my choice of living I have had a chance to understand and to experience the Tolstoy's opening line of Ana Karenina: All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

Sometimes we have a family days, my ex-husband, our daughter and I. We spent all week or more together like a regular family. It is fun, like a going to Disneyland or seeing the latest blockbuster in the cinema. It feels like a template of living. Even though the comprehension of  life provides us with the understanding that this is a short-term happiness, we still allow ourselves to (ab)use these moments. It is human belief that things can be improved; that love stories can be saved; that dreams can find their hazardous way to become reality. Yes, all of it is more than possible; all of it happens all the time, but what about the things which have the tendency to  follow our moments of happiness like a dark shadows? 

Those things are happening simultaneously. Life is a game of light and darkness. 

​What about the situations in life when we find ourselves as part of collateral damage? What about our lost loves? Nevertheless, what about our broken or forgotten dreams? 

​Sorrow is equally as precious as love; hurting makes room  for improvement of empathy and solitude can sometimes be the greatest company. 

​Beautiful people you used to know are not necessary the ones you share your present with, but not being part of your life does not make them less beautiful. Lost loves are like butterflies- tragedy is crucial part of their existence. ​So, we have a choice, even when it does not seem so. We can accept or refuse; we can settle with ordinary or we can seek someting unique. We can do whatever we feel like doing or whatever we ever wanted. 

But, do we completely understand the difference between our dreams and our fears? 

You can choose your starting point as empathy or religion, but it is crucial to make a humble observation of your transience and human vulnerability. Is our fate the path we follow, or do we create the path for ourselves? It is a personal inner debate, and it is essential for understanding the distinction between our longings and our  aims. 

I believe in God, I trust in life and I love people. 

When I was younger I thought I knew exactly what I wanted from life, but along the way I realized I had just a sketch designed by my imagination within my mind. Life is the canvas (even this metaphor sounds cheap). We hope we can draw with our desires, but eventually we do it with our actions. We are mapping our lives by choosing our next step, all the while dancing under the moonlight or crying in the dark. I love to compare a life with the sea; I see both as a movement of the greatest force. 

As years passed I learned to truly embrace my imperfect life and the people who are or who were part of it; I accepted all brokenness of humans relations. In the meantime I started to live in the present moment , instead of daydreaming of future I was longing for. Yes, I do have quality time with my unconventional family, but I also  have time for my highly appreciated  much sought after creative solitude. In the personal choice of independent  living social labeling is useless. The traditional norms are needless- only beliefs and human ethics are really relevant.  The aim is to make a collection of all meaningful moments we have had a chance to  pass through.  At the end of our journey in our memory only the joyful moments and sparks of happiness will remain.   

Thanks to my choice of living I have had a chance to understand and to experience the Tolstoy's opening line of Ana Karenina: All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

​I guess, we are a happily unhappy family; we have a family days without going to Disneyland. ​

"What shall I bestow upon you when I do not own anything but my words?"

Today I spent all afternoon with my parents, my sister and her daughters. Yes, I am very attached to my family and I cherish close relations with them. We share our time, our good and bad moments, our actuality and our past  But, today a strange moment happen and I was not prepared for it. A moment of travelling through the time; going a decade in reverse. My mom brought out a sheet of paper after the lunch. It was a song I wrote to her 10 years ago for her birthday and she wanted to share it with my 10 years old niece. 

The song was written by hand on a blank sheet of paper from notebook. 

I do not remember writing  process, neither poem's existence. I do not remember my mother reaction when I gave her a peace of my soul written down with my left handed, difficult for reading writing style. I do not recall particularly that birthday of hers, except the fact that it was November 18th, 2005. I was in a high school back then. As any teenager, I was more focused on my inner world rather then on my reality. To be honest, in that time, books were my reality; most likely depression as well, even though I never saw it to be an issue when I was living my episodes or periods. 

She asked me to read it to my niece, because no one can read my handwriting; I always wrote exclusively for myself and I never made a copies of my work. I remember the moment when 4 professors tried to read my final essay at the high school, because they founded my handwriting to be very complex. Eventually, they understood that  the context I wrote was better then expected, so I was awarded with the higher recognition - to be naturally gifted future writer. The same belief followed me through the collage, but my highly developed self-criticism put a shadow on my possibly bright future of becoming a writer; I would call it a curse rather than a natural gift, but regardless how is marked, living with it and despite it is the only way which remains. 

But when I took this sheet of paper, when I saw my handwriting, when I looked at personal note addressed to my mother, I simply started to cry without any control. I read it for myself, choking in my spontaneous tears, trying to read it fast, so I can take some air; trying to get down from the roller-coaster of my constantly present melancholy, with the same intensity even after a decade, trying to tame this overwhelming sorrow within me. 

So, I found some strength left to read it out loud to my niece, whom hugged me when she spot the tears in my eyes. So, I am reading and my hands are shaking, my soul is breaking and my heart is growing in the same moment. It is ode to my mother and I do not want to sound pretentious, but with the decade of distance, I can say it is well written; deeply melancholic and honest poem. 

And I am reading it so everyone can hear me. My mother cries too. Why do you think I end up to be so emotional? It is a personal heritage from her and my full of love childhood. 

The one verse is repeating in a good manner and it sounds something like "What shall I bestow upon you when I do not own anything but my words?"

While reading it, I start to understand that a lot of things happen within 10 years, but nothing what matters has ever changed. 

Catwoman will save a day (with the puppy look in her eyes)

On the beginning of my twenties I used to date an older guys. They made me feel special; they made me feel spoiled. Simply, I felt as a young girl should feel: like a princess. From them I  learned how to be grateful to my youth, how to enjoy the time and the present moment, further on to dream big, to explore my inner world, to understand how to love my body, the other person, their fears and worlds around us. They loved me, they admire me, they broke me and eventually  helped me to grow up. I still love those few individuals and their madness as I love my favorite writers. 

The thing I love about them the most is that they never changed; they remain to be a lunatics, socially unexceptionable, emotionally unreachable,  now in their forties, but still caring around the boy's dreams and boy's heart. They loved life and all manifests of it. I was always smart enough to understand that the only person whom you should try to save from the inner demons is yourself. Even then, success is not guarantied. The funny thing is that I was always ready, despite common sense,  as every young believer is, to trade my dreams and my heart for salvation of their brokenness.  Luckily or unfortunately, depends of your perception, I was saved by my own demons and my broke illusions at the end.

But that is the new chapter, the broken ones. I loved those men. I think I still do. Those are the most intense and most hopeless emotional relationships; you love his imperfections, but for some reason, which none of evolved understands, you try to fix it; you try to help him.  He might asks for the help, but to tell you the truth, he does not really want it; he simply enjoys your good will to sacrifice for him. But, once when you are distanced and you can see clearly what this all was about, you understand how stupid you were, but you do not regret! How fake it  was? Fake enough to believe in ti!  But, you are young, you are now aware of your innocent blindness and so it shall be forgiven!

As time was passing I spotted the young ones. The beautiful boys with big dreams, but shy individuals. Insecure ones. The ones with a lot of potential to grow up into men every girl or woman dreams of, but the boys with the lack of courage. 

So, what I did? I tried to encourage them. To provoke them to think big, to be brave, to become aware how beautiful they are (I believe everyone is, but I find some people more beautiful then others; the one with the vision I admire the most) and how to keep up with this (re)mark in their lives. 

Everyone needs encouragement; someone gets it for free from local lunatics, and the others pay for it with their smashed self-esteem, with their tears, and most important with their lost time.

I am 29 today. I do not need encouragement anymore, but I am truly enjoying to raise awareness of people how beautiful they are, how big they can grow, how far their imagination can take them, if they would only try to believe. 

To believe in my words, in the look of a stranger, in the impossible, in their hopes in third person's dreams, in their own strength. If  they would only allowed themselves to escape this judgmental environment, they would discover that there are a parallel universes in their everyday's lives! Your dreams are reality there; there can become here if you deeply believe in magic.

The truth is: there are people whom trust in you more that you trust in yourself. 

Some of my already forgotten loves made their way out of this madness called socially acceptable behavior, adult expectations, real life and the other bullshit. They saved their souls and shared their beauty with those whom are cable to recognize it in their art or simply in their humanity. 

There was a lot of, more or less, significant men in my life, even though I cannot recall some of their names. There were also the ones I used to dream about years after, but regardless the fact that  I was always surrounded with more men, rather then women during my twenties, the women are those whom truly made an impact in my life, and whom inspired me the most. 

I do not know a lot of woman, but those l know I had admired from the beginning.

Those women are storms; they are hurricanes of alien energies, waterfalls of fresh inspirations, and nevertheless, they are goddess and warriors for their believes and dreams; they are braver than any men I ever cross the path with. Each of them is a Catwoman and owns the avenue of  her broken dreams, lost loves and past lives. All of them are proud, but, in the same time, humble. All of those women own the universe within.

Women I admire are cats with the puppy look in their eyes, but with the dragon's fire in their hearts.  

Catwoman will save a day.  Trust me. 

Lovers are strangers

From the moment I discovered love, I never stopped loving since. Sometimes I loved for a years, sometimes for months, but in the meantime, I learned how to love for days or hours. Something strange is happening to love in general; if you ask me, I would say that broken people are happening all around the globe. 

It seems that everyone is trying to love less instead of loving more. If they are engage in emotional relationship, people prefer to receive more tenderness, care, affection and attention, rather than to give it in return for no cause. I find it to be very odd and disturbing.

I was loved and I loved back even more, through all my life, but I never thought of it as my weakness, just the opposite, it was my strength from the beginning.  

When on earth became important whom will call first and what shall be said? Love is mute, but it speaks all languages. 

Disposed and offered feelings by someone are there to be cherished and appreciated, not to be analyzed and abused in personal war with your own demons. Simply, I do not understand when love affairs happen to be transformed into war zones. It is inevitable: to kill or to be killed. 

It is clear to me that lovers fight; they fight to improve their relationship; they do it to refresh their sexual life; they fight because they care or despite that, because they are not strong enough to change their bad habits instantly; change requires time. It seeks for support, understanding and patience of the significant other. In order to evolve together, we have to accept that we have to proceed with certain changing process of ourselves. It is hard to achieve that advance; it is even harder to do it alone. 

If we do not succeed in improvement of ourselves as a better, smarter, more wise kind of person, we often intend to blame our partner, third person if needed, the situation, the circumstances and everything we could think off, but we will never accept our defeat. We will never admit we are the one whom failed. 

We will look for "better"! Why people always think they can "do better"? What better means in terms of love? It means that you will become that person who loves more.  

It is so sad to live in ignorance. It is deeply disappointing to know people spend their lives in fear of unknown; they even love in fear; in fear of being hurt. Love does not hurt, dear people, expectations does.    

After all fights with yourself and with others in name of love, only one acknowledgment remains: lovers are strangers. I found it to be beautifully inspiring for ours future love affairs, regardless for how long the love will last. 

More poetry and babies is needed

I am reading my friend's poetry for the first time. It is older that our friendship and it was hidden for almost 15 years. He is not planing to publish it or anything similar, simply he felt that it is right moment to share it with me, after all this years. It was appropriate gift for my upcoming birthday! Trust packed into the  verses. 

Poetry does not belong to anyone, neither to author; poetry has it's own life. I love to compare making art/creative process with giving a birth to a baby; I went through both.

Once when get's out of you art becomes everyone's asylum. You are delivery person, participating in divine process of creation. The purpose is giving.

If you are using certain art form to make a living or simply to survive, than keep in mind that once when creative process is finished, your art does not belong to you anymore. Once when gets exposed to a human eye, ear or mind every person will see it differently; your art will become a mirror for someone's cognition of world, life or feeling. Be aware that you are doing it because you feel strong urge, stronger than sexual one, to shape your demons together with everything you once learned or experienced, imagined or dreamed of into the piece. 

Once everything gets out, you are baptized. 

Being a mother is the most important role for me and my biggest happiness, even though I understand completely that  in my life, except my hard work, nothing else is in my control. Life is erratic. 

If you give a thought to a fact that you are a parent and that you are guardian of someone's life as long as you live, you will understand that they are living in your time, but that you are not living in theirs. Their time is just about to become, and most likely it will happen in the meantime, while you are getting to tired and/or to old. Besides of being your children, they are also humans with their own will, their future dreams, fears and hopes; with their lives which exclusively belongs to them, not to their parents or their future children. 

They are beautiful artworks you witness existing; you can put your trust in them, your love and your prayers. You can guide them and be grateful and honored to play this role in screenplay called life. You should do your best to be a parent, a shelter, a listener, a friend, an angel guardian, but you should never ask for their gratitude at the end.  

You chose to be their parent, they did not had a chance to chose to be your children. 

That does not mean they are not thankful, it only means you need to let them be, and you need to be proud of them for whom they are. Nevertheless, allow to your children and to poetry to remind you what it is crucial in life; allow yourself to trust in unconditional love again.  

I admire to children and I adore poetry. I admire and adore the pureness of heart. So, I beg you do not try to be a role model to your children or to use them as extension of your youth in order for you to accomplish your failed ambitions. 

 I beg you not to interpret the poetry based on  author's biography, even if you personally know the author, or if the author is yourself.