The Man with Uneven Chance

I gave fifty pounds to a stranger today. Really? Yes - absurdly as it sounds. I gave to him because he asked, I gave to him because there was nothing to lose. And they say men give less than women in relationships; is that true? Or are we just trying to barter using currencies from different countries? Must be. In the end end it must be down to just a whole misunderstanding. Like that guy running away with fifty pounds, misunderstood for his actions or misgiven for his transactions. Who knows? Does it really matter? I do not feel worried, perhaps lighter but not buried with the burden of concern and regret. In less than an hour it will be tomorrow, fifty pounds are already away on the table in a cafe', on the races in a betting shop, on the several other coins in the hat I hold. Does it really matter? Just stay there and do not judge until you have given everything away; you are only free to do everything when you are free from everything. Free like there is no tomorrow, as if your day is your life and there is only one you can spend to learn. Free like birds. Free like the multiple combinations of guitar chords. Free like banknotes drifting in the wind. Free like the time that has gone already. Gone where there is no tomorrow but only today!

The Man with Dreams of Love

One night a vision came to him who stared out the window. It was the ghost of a future life returning from a forgotten destiny that apparently we all forget to follow and forget to enjoy. I'd rather not follow my instincts or my desires in the height of the present; certainly something will guide then hand when you will write the letter to handout or hold the pencil to draw with, something will grow from the seeds lying in the cold and arid soil. We simply do not see what is to come and we do not create but simply shape it for what is our best, our only existence. I do not want to die alone for sure, and I do not want to miss what things could be; I will just make sure my seat in front of the world will never be misplaced as I embrace half of Plato's apple.

The Man who Returned From the Stars

Leaving monotony is not a common thing; you could live on it for months and years with just a cold shiver on your back to remind you what is out there. I should not worry for what people may have to say, for I will come back in a shining light inundating the streets, the squares and the grey buildings. In the distance I shall see a glimmering horizon on a bleak landscape, and the fire will burn into re-entry. How long have I been gone? How far away did I live in the outskirts of my mind? And is there are reason for such glamour, such noise, on the way back? As a soldier returning home, you feel your heart pumping blood again, you see the faces you missed, or the new faces you met. In the end, am I not returning to a different world after leaving the same old one behind my shoulders on that long, distant day? The habitual places I see are no friend to me anymore but I will attach a new meaning to whole of this until I return from the stars.

The Man who Smiles to the Evil Spirits

I think I have seen your face once before and it was in the moment of hatred, in the moment of agony, in the downward spiral sucking all that I had. And now what do I have? That same face, with that innocent smile, in a new world and in a new dimension to me unknown. Who am I to judge with criteria of the past? Who am I to support progress when what happened drives my decisions? I smile to what will happen, whatever that is, whoever it comes from; perhaps it will be your face once again in the moment of chance, in the mishap of casuality, or should I say irony. Is that really you? Or is just something I dreamt of? I definitely cannot recall how I got here, where all the photos burnt, where all the songs went. It is definitely sure I will drift again like the ball of mercury, not caring of what is around, not caring of where I drifted before, and I will smile in oblivion. Perhaps I have been forgetting to forget?

The Man with Too Much Left Unsaid

Speaking words, talking about the weather, wishing you are well, thanking you for an act of kindness...how many times there is a feeling it is not enough? Have it not said or done enough? And you measure your life in words, commas, prepositions and logical sentences to give a structure, a meaning to support who you are and who you are with. And I never feel you are reaching out to embrace, to hold who you are with; they seem to drift away like granules of dust under the thick ray of a dying sun. I think my eyes told enough, I will always believe that. Yet, who actually reads what you are thinking if we do not ask? We are all mind readers in this world with the lack of self-validation, with the lack of courage to tell we know what the others are thinking. Out of politeness, being incomplete is still something that I cannot ignore and the taste of bitterness leaves my confounded while I look out on the dark road. Where are those ears that listen to you when you feel you need to whisper them truths and feelings? Are the words not spoken just a missed carpe diem in the big scheme of things? In the end you turn to questions that you answer yourself. Someone at least will answer and it could be your ego as well as your supergo. You don't care - what cares is that we cannot leave words unsaid, not any longer, and some people sing, some people write, some people protest...yet, rarely will people will talk about something that is not the weather. We tread carefully on this path of wrong doings and misunderstood acts and prefer to live in the self-preservation society. Who wants to break out? If you are happy to tell me, I can assure nothing will be left unsaid.

The Man with a Heart Made Out of Paper

Ripped through like leaves and trees in the eye of the storm, there is very little to sustain it. You draw it nicely and make it colourful with strong shades of red, you can even feel it pumping. But one blow cannot help you sustain it. What is with mankind and their need to visualise the source of emotions? Do we need to see what we feel, or just see what we feel at first? You hear the paper rustling, trying to make sense of what you could realistically draw on paper, of what you could write to make you believe what exists and what is product of fantasy. Yet, the pages flickered through will not tell you what to see and they might never summarise what you felt on that day, on that moment. If music played right now, could you wish it was on paper to bless those who listened to it? Would musicians hang their instruments to pick up the pens and pencils on the floor? My desire is not written with the alphabet inherited from father to son, nor it is something you draw or see on the walls of a gutted city. Blessing came with the word and flew over the city to warm you all with its sounds, its accentuation, its intonation; to represent that rhythm life kept close to her at all times. Tu-tum...tu-tum...is that your heart beating for one lifetime only or is that just a series of characters to be seen forever?

The Man whose Mind is Always Elsewhere

Focus on what you can see ahead - do you actually focus or vaguely stare in-between where nothing lays or lies? I still do not know for my mind is unsure when listening becomes routine and hearing creeps in as a side effect. Yet, I am sure it all comes down to those words I sense coming through my ears like constant reminder of who and where I am. Why should I focus? Are you the world for me to visit and cherish? I doubt it is, and I even doubt further what my mind is able to conquer where everything is fragmented, untold, forgotten. The world on its own is too much for me; my world will live longer through years and centuries across the forests and the lands I built for me only. Bring up these walls of mine as I will dare protect my thoughts to the very end, and welcome the brothers and sisters willing to lose themselves where my mind is lost from day to day. And elsewhere I think my happiness still breathes air as heavy as gold - but do I really care when my mind is always elsewher

The Man Who Is Urged to Ask

When you ask yourself so many questions, there is no harder force than man's curiosity to explain and wonder what lies behind every look and behind every word you may have said or even thought. I think we all expect everything to be black and white under the bright sun shining over this small planet; we are indeed the world who believes in night and day, dark and light, good and evil. But who ever thinks about the terminator, that thin, fictive line distinguishing the night from the day and the day from the night? We see the sun rise, we cross it, we see the sun go to sleep, and we cross it again without even thinking. And what about the horizon? The one you chased as a child, trying to reach it before it slipped further away over the hills and over the sea on a never-ending circle. Us, we pass the grey forms without staring at them and without asking them who or what they are. For they do not exist. And because of this we should not ask ourselves why our 'ghosts' do not go to sleep for they have already gone asleep and we simply feel fictive lines blurring the shape of things.