Two is also a number

I don't know who that is,
but I know that he is
climbing,
as I am sitting on the rooftop watching bats above my head,
flying,
with a trey in his hands,
carrying a cup of tea,
sweet, milky, stirred a number of times with a smile...
not in hurry as if buying a gift from a duty free shop,
but slowly...
wanting to spoil me a bit,
today,
knowing that what I do is valuable...

Both of us are lazily soaking in the gravity of these words.

Knowing that what I do is valuable because of who I am,
numbers are not the only story tellers of this world...
Two is also a number,
It's the only sold painting of van Gogh ... plus one...
It's the evening of feverish pain... plus one...
It's the chemotherapy needle... plus one...
It's the kiss of the dog... plus one...
It's the hand engrossed in soil... plus one...

It's a strict inequality sign  in love with changing directions,
no roles have been fixed,
it's flow,
organic,
Point.

Drops of life

I can feel the essence of life trickling between my fingers.
Drop,
after drop,
Falling down from the cracked jar that I am holding near my chest.

Dripping in every drop are
the colours of the rainbow,
sunset with rainy clouds,
a wounded dog,
tomato,
bicycle ride,
sighting the parakeet,
smell of moist soil...

Dripping,
irreversibly...
The shapes of the trees
While I walk fast with eyes nailed to the letters jumping on a tiny screen...
Wiring my brain to recognise the magnificent simplicity of binary code.
The horizon used to be 'magnificent',
but when was the last time...?

Dripping...
The moments of life that I would want to live.

I am scared.

Let the horses run

Choices are hard
at times
they tear me apart
like horses galloping in different directions.
Stop! I scream.
They listen to the breath of a whip in my hand.
They pause.

The first victorious battle with choice.

I struggle with them,
the words whisper into my ear to choose the roads less travelled
and as I listen to them I fear the claws of pride gently touching my shoulder.
Individuality is the course of modern age.

And yet,
perhaps,
hopefully,
though still with doubts
the choice to turn my back at the road grows more from the desire for collective sharing than an individual race.

I detest speed,
in words,
in the touch of your hands,
in crowds.
And so I choose,
not to...

Slowly,
calmly,
firmly...
(with too many adjectives all at once)
I choose to bury my feet in the soil
and smell the new words that fill me up,
with the silence one phone call away
I watch the horses pass me by
when I let go of the whip,
victorious, yet somewhere broken
I turn my face the other side...

a cat,
brown leaf,
a butterfly,
your eyes,
my pocket...

Let the horses run,
I let go