Constellation Blues

Category: Writings (page 2 of 2)

Only until 1am

Sharp cuts from the light of stars
A cold wind and constant glances backward
Into the darkness, avoiding the chasing trails.

Feeling misunderstood with every word
And wishing to go home when the stories are over
Meandering journey, only to waste my time.

Walking on the world’s clearest ice
And wishing to see his face when the ghosts are gone
His face, or a memory, both the same reflection.

Hello friends, I’m starting to worry we might not win.

a lost letter

memories skimming across the milky way
ageless threads pulled out
a voiceless glance into the darkness

the wait is over
and a moment of reunion

a smile flashing
after years of isolation
against the wall
in the crowded room

the wait is over
the beginning of happiness.

The Death of Butterflies

…in a slow, prolonged, torturous death they had struggled in agony for hours, days, perhaps weeks. And they were the children of Ziedonis [the god of Spring, literal translation: blossom time]: flowers that had come to life and separating from their stems had risen to the sky. But then tormenting man had come and ended that in the most brutal manner. Is there a more unmerciful being than man? I shook with sobs, and I felt as if someone had grabbed my shoulders and was shaking my whole being. Was the Ziedonis himself that now cried with my tears? Had not he taken me by the hand and led me here so I could see what kind of injustice was being done to him? Didn’t he want to tell that behind all beauty hides death, suffering and dread? I too felt as if I had a pin stuck through my heart and I would have to bleed slowly, perhaps my whole life long… What I felt was not only my personal pain but the pain of all nature with which we are organically bound.

And quickly gathering the butterflies in her apron, she tossed them into the blazing furnace. Sudden death was far better than prolonged torture, she reasoned, and she went out to accept her punishment.

-The Latvian writer, Aspazija. Translated by Astrida B. Stahnke.

A Working Memory

Dying to share his thoughts, he would call in the middle of the night.  Reading to me an essay or speech, I was amused by his mind’s eagerness to share its delighted news.

Yet, he never remembered anything I said.

Even worse, he never remembered he already excitedly told me his thoughts.  Again and again, the same life-changing essays.

I’m one of those people who can never allow others finish what they’re saying without interrupting, but I somehow never had the heart to interrupt his passionate phone calls to say, “I’ve been thoroughly informed of those thoughts… By you”~

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