I deleted you. It's easy. Twenty first century allows you to press the button and delete a person. Put somebody into non-existence. Erasing the past and unborn future as if we could programme our brains not to think and remember. But can i erase memories? They still linger in my head, even though your face is just a meeting point of incoherent lines that somebody once scribbled in the sand at the sea shore.
A poet once told us to hurry and love people for they leave so quickly, and only the shoes remain and the phone that rings on...
But that dreadful twenty first century does not care for rounded dialers, only the numbers shining on a screen, like the numbers tattooed on forearms of men in concentration camps. Nameless, faceless digital numbers imprisoned inside a tiny box. Prisoners of the twenty first century.
My grandmother used to write letters to me. The most beautiful letters I could imagine, 4 words on each page for her eyes were too weak to write small letters. The stories that I heard so many times in my life...
My grandmother was walking in the street when the rains broke and a man came towards her holding an umbrella. That's how she met my grandfather. And they stay together through his army days during the war. No phones, but letters and memories. She cherished those memories for the last 30 years of her life that she spent without him.
The piano she used to play.
Exhibition of my paintings in her room when I was 6 years old.
Dog whom she taught how to dance.
My woolen dresses, caps, gloves, scarfs, sweaters that she would knit.
Her conversations with her own self as she was sitting alone in an armchair in her room.
I still have them, they are undeletable, unlike the numbers that are constantly changing together with people.
A poet once told us to hurry and love people for they leave so quickly, and only the shoes remain and the phone that rings on...
But that dreadful twenty first century does not care for rounded dialers, only the numbers shining on a screen, like the numbers tattooed on forearms of men in concentration camps. Nameless, faceless digital numbers imprisoned inside a tiny box. Prisoners of the twenty first century.
My grandmother used to write letters to me. The most beautiful letters I could imagine, 4 words on each page for her eyes were too weak to write small letters. The stories that I heard so many times in my life...
My grandmother was walking in the street when the rains broke and a man came towards her holding an umbrella. That's how she met my grandfather. And they stay together through his army days during the war. No phones, but letters and memories. She cherished those memories for the last 30 years of her life that she spent without him.
The piano she used to play.
Exhibition of my paintings in her room when I was 6 years old.
Dog whom she taught how to dance.
My woolen dresses, caps, gloves, scarfs, sweaters that she would knit.
Her conversations with her own self as she was sitting alone in an armchair in her room.
I still have them, they are undeletable, unlike the numbers that are constantly changing together with people.
