I don't have a house, but I do have home...

I don't have a house, but I do have home...
Every evening before sleep I enter that space of my mind that allows me to be myself. Just myself, nothing more and nothing less than that. The only time when I can be really naked. Have you ever stood naked in front of a mirror and looked at yourself? tried to see who you really are? Not just the skin covering the flesh but all those thoughts that hide underneath.

I saw a girl once. She was not one of those beautiful faces that you would die for. I'm not even sure if you would remember her the next day. She stood in front of a mirror... The colours of her thoughts were a strange mixture of blue and green paint just like the sky, the lake and the trees she had seen once in a dream. I think you might like to see her naked... Dressed only in the colours of her thoughts... Your fingers brushing through her entangled fears in a gentle attempt to untie all the knots.

A furry ball is my home. The touch of his warmth as I extend my hand to feel another being next to me. Memories hidden in brown wool... A peacock on the wall... A sound from a mosque... A night of singing by the fire... A swing hanging from a tree... A bath in a geyser on a desert...

I saw a girl once. She stood in front of a looking glass watching how tears form rivers flowing down her cheeks. Rivers are made of blue colour, and so are lakes. Would mister Jung want to say a few words about  desires and reality?

I saw a girl once. She stood in front of glasses. She smiled for a moment... It was one of those moments that lasts forever.

My grandmother used to look at the world through a magnifying glass... I saw a girl who laughed loud and the trees around her responded to her happiness...

I don't have a house, but I do have home...

Sometimes I don't feel like living anymore...

We sat down looking at each other across the table of differences in age and life experiences. But we were very similar to each other. Same cups of milk coffee, same eyes, same gap between the front teeth, fat ankles. We were sitting there in silence and I must have looked outside the window to catch a glimpse of a plum tree. There was nothing extraordinary in two women sitting together in a kitchen. The bond of womanhood.
'Sometimes I don't feel like living anymore' she said.

Many years and thousand of coffees later we spoke on the phone in the evening. 'I will live, I promise, I want to'... And we made plans of life and what it would be like and laughed at the perspective of their realisation.

But sometimes promises are not meant to be kept... like shoe lace hanging from the fan, like 100 tablets of heart medicine and a bottle of wine, like jumping down from 16th floor of an apartment building, or jumping into the coldest of cold waters, or in the most prosaic of ways on the hospital bed..........................

I'm sitting now by the table with a cup of tea and as I think about her in the kitchen I begin to wonder what it means to be alive. Where is the difference between living a life and surviving from one day to another.
It is so simple when we look at it at the basic level of our needs of food and shelter - but what if financial security is not enough for somebody to feel alive?

I am scared of big metro stations and streets with hundreds of words staring at me from the advertising boards. I stopped at the metro station once and kept looking at an old man in a hat, who walked so slowly among the speeding crowd. Where was everybody rushing at that hour? His lips looked as if they had been sealed, as if he had not spoken for years, and I couldn't but begin to wonder if you actually pay attention to what he wanted to say. Did I actually pay attention to what she wanted to say while she was sitting in her armchair... What happens to those whose words and ways of living do not conform with the images thrown at us from a TV screen?

Driver, please, stop the world and allow me to get down at the next stop.

Can you remember the last time you felt truly alive? I feel alive in my work but outside that space? I used to feel alive while sitting under the tree with a cup of chai and a book in my hand. A dog would come for a pat and as I looked up I could feel the sun on my face and I would become amazed with the colours of leaves above my head.

Life hides in the smallest moments around us. It is like a patchwork quilt of tiny pieces of memories and happiness. It is hand made, and not stitched by some machine and sold as a mass product.
I heard them talk about a business plan today - buy cheap, stitch cheap, sell cheap, earn fast...
A friend of mine paints her own shirts... private use.
I like sleeping under cheap colourful bedsheets. I always take time to choose them carefully. They are me.

The drum.

Ta dhin dhit ta dhin...

I was a 6 year old child when I felt the call of wild freedom entering my body with a loud sound of a drum played by a black skinned shaman dancing in a jungle of my childhood just outside the middle-class window of security and order. My face against a cold glass and fear in my mother's heart. Did she feel then that this sound shall accompany me throughout my life?

Dha Tete Tha tete...

I was eleven. 34'51N 5'44E  Biskra. Algeria. Africa.
He was a boy who had nothing and having nothing is the most precious possession of those who dare to dream. And so he would often dream to the rhythmic sounds that his fingers produced on a huge metal can that would keep upside down by the wall of the house facing my window. Did you know that sounds can sometimes speak more than words? Did you know that the innocence of childhood nurtures your being more than language you speak? Everyday I would wait for the magic concert below my window. Every day we would roam around happily in our small oasis of freedom and integrity. One day a boy drew a sparrow and said it reminded him of me. And the next day he gave me a drawing of the same bird with 3 words written underneath... I love you...  The innocence and freedom of childhood.
But another voice said it would rather breed Arabian horses than Arabs and some of the childhood dreams were broken by an unknown till then word 'racism'. The fingers on a metal can against shiny middle-class drum kit of strictly fixed rules of behaviour obeyed under the supervision of an opera conductor.


Dhit ta dhene ta a...

The wedding processions in Delhi are full of the sounds of incoherent drumbeats, trumpets, and bursting of crakers. Sounds loud enough to awaken the dead and make them stand somewhere in the corner of the street shouting at the crowd to become silent and allow them to sleep in their dreamless reality.

Ta hatha jhom...

I love you. Ta dhing... (She turned her face away.) But I lo... Ta dhing ta (She turned her face the other side) I need... Ta dhing tat ta (She bent forward holding her stomach) Do I...

and then the Tandava dance started...
A bird spread its wings and flew away from a white sheet of paper...

Fragments of Crave and 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane

At 4.48
when depression visits
I shall hang myself
to the sound of my lover's breathing

I do not want to die

I have become so depressed by the fact of my mortality that I have decided to commit suicide

I do not want to live

This is not a world in which I wish to live.

 I want to scream for you, the only doctor who ever touched me voluntarily, who looked me in the eye, who laughed at my gallows humour spoken in the voice from the newly-dug grave, who took the piss when I shaved my head, who lied and said it was nice to see me. Who lied. And said it was nice to see me. I trusted you, I loved you, 

Sometimes I turn around and catch the smell of you and I cannot go on I cannot fucking go on without expressing this terrible so fucking awful physical aching fucking longing I have for you. And I cannot believe that I can feel this for you and you feel nothing. Do you feel nothing?


And I go out at six in the morning and start my search for you. If I've dreamt a message of a street or a pub or a station I go there. And I wait for you.

(Silence.)

I want to sleep next to you and do your shopping and carry your bags and tell you how much I love being with you

 And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my clothes and tell you I like your shoes and sit on the steps while you take a bath and massage your neck and kiss your feet and hold your hand an go for a meal and not mind when you eat my food and meet you at Rudy's and talk about the day and type up your letters and carry your boxes and laugh at your paranoia and give you tapes you don't listen to and watch great films and watch terrible films and complain about the radio and take pictures of you when you're sleeping and get up to fetch you coffee at midnight and have you steal my cigarettes and never be able to find a match and tell you about the tv programme I saw the night before and take you to the eye hospital and not laugh at your jokes and want you in the morning but let you sleep for a while and kiss your back and stroke your skin and tell you how much I love your hair your eyes
 
and sit on the steps smoking till your neighbour comes home and sit on the steps smoking till you come home and worry when you're late and be amazed when you're early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance till I'm black and be sorry when I'm wrong and happy when you forgive me and look at your photos and wish I'd known you forever and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when you're angry and your eye has gone red and the other eye blue and your hair to the left and your face oriental and tell you you're gorgeous and hug you when you're anxious and hold you when you hurt and want you when I smell you and offend  you when I touch you   and whimper when I'm next to  you and whimper when I'm not  and dribble on your breast and smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don't and melt when you smile and dissolve when you laugh and not understand why you think I'm rejecting you when I'm not rejecting you and wonder how you could think I'd ever reject you and wonder  who  you  are  but  accept  you  anyway  and  tell  you  about  the  tree  angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the ocean because he loved you and write poems for you and wonder why you don't believe me and have a feeling so deep I can't find words for it and want to buy you a kitten I'd get jealous of because it would get more attention than me and keep you in bed when you have to go and cry like a baby when you finally do and get rid of the roaches and buy you presents you don't want and take them away again and ask you to marry me and you say no again but keep on asking because though you think I don't mean it I do always have from the first time I asked you and wander the city thinking it's empty without you and want what you want and think I'm loosing myself but know I'm safe with you and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don't deserve any less and answer your questions when I'd rather not and tell you the truth when I really don't want to and try to be honest because I know you prefer it and think it's all over but hang on in for just ten more minutes before you throw me out of your life and forget who I am and try to get closer to you because it's beautiful learning to know you and well worth the effort and speak German to you badly and Hebrew to you worse and make love with you at three in the morning and somehow somehow somehow communicate some of the/ overwhelming undying overpowering unconditional all-encompassing heart-enriching mind-expanding on-going never-ending love I have for you.

(Silence.)
I've never in my life had a problem giving another person what they want. But no one's ever been able to do that for me. No one touches me, no one gets near me. But now you've touched me somewhere so fucking deep I can't believe and I can't be that for you. Because I can't find you.


Do you think it's possible for a person to be born in the wrong body? (Silence.)

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you for rejecting me by never being there, fuck you for making me feel shit about myself, fuck you for bleeding the fucking love and life out of me, fuck my father for fucking up my life for good and fuck my mother for not leaving him, but most of all, fuck you God for making me love a person who does not exist,



I dread the loss of him I've never touched love keeps me a slave in a cage of tears
I gnaw my tongue with which to him I can never speak
I miss a man who was never born
I kiss a man across the years that say we shall never meet


my thought walks away with a killing smile leaving discordant anxiety
which roars in my soul

 No hope No hope No hope



A song for my loved one, touching his absence the flux of his heart, the splash of his smile

In ten years time he'll still be dead. When I'm living with it, dealing with it, when a few days pass when I don't even think of it, he'll still be dead. When I'm an old lady living ion the street forgetting my name he'll still be dead, he'll still be dead, he'll still be dead, it's just
fucking
over



and I must stand alone

My love, my love, why have you forsaken me? he is the couching place where I never shall lie
and there's no meaning to life in the light of my loss

Built to be lonely to love the absent

Find me
Free me
from this

corrosive doubt futile despair

horror in repose

I can fill my space fill my time
but nothing can fill this void in my heart



The vital need for which I would die




Cut out my tongue tear out my hair
cut off my limbs
but leave me my love
I would rather have lost my legs
pulled out my teeth gouged out my eyes than lost my love

Sanity is found at the centre of convulsion, where madness is scorched form the bisected soul.


At 4.48

I shall sleep

I came to you hoping to be healed.

You are my doctor, my saviour, my omnipotent judge, my priest, my god, the surgeon of my soul.

And I am your proselyte to sanity.




– You've seen the worst of me.

– I know nothing of you.

– But I like you.

(Silence.)

– You're my last hope. (A long silence.)
– You don't need a friend you need a doctor. (A long silence.)

(A very long silence.)

– But you have friends. (A long silence.)
You have a lot of friends.
What do you offer your friends to make them so supportive? (A long silence.)
What do you offer your friends to make them so supportive? (A long silence.)
What do you offer? (Silence.)
We have a professional relationship. I think we have a good relationship. But it's professional.

(Silence.)

I feel your pain but I cannot hold your life in my hands. (Silence.)
You'll be all right. You're strong. I know you'll be okay because I like you and you can't like someone who doesn't like themself.  I'll miss you. And I know you'll be ok.

When I walk out of here at the end of the day I need to go home to my lover and relax. I need to be with my friends and relax. I need my friends to be really together.

(Silence.)

I fucking hate this job and I need my friends to be sane. (Silence.)


you will always have a piece of me because you held my life in your hands

like a bird on the wing in a swollen sky my mind is torn by lightning


What am I like?


the child of negation

out of one torture chamber into another
a vile succession of errors without remission every step of the way I've fallen

Anguish for which doctors can find no cure

I hope you never understand
Because I like you

I like you
I like you

still black water
as deep as forever
as cold as the sky
as still as my heart when your voice is gone
I shall freeze in hell of course I love you you saved my life

I wish you hadn't
I wish you hadn't
I wish you'd left me alone

I've always loved you
even when I hated you

the only thing that's permanent is destruction we're all going to disappear
trying to leave a mark more permanent that myself


the vital need for which I would die to be loved



I'm dying for one who doesn't care
I'm dying for one who doesn't know

I have no desire for death no suicide ever had



watch me vanish watch me



vanish watch me
watch me


It is myself I have never met, whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind



please open the curtains

For myself.

W zyciu piekne sa tylko chwile...

I saw a field of golden sunflowers on a summer's day. Thousands of suns under the blue sky. Only once, and only for a moment as we walked from a tiny train station of a sleepy town.
But this is a story of yesterday. A story of a small peace sign that was there on one's favourite bag...
Is it there today too?
Today is a mixture of the past and future. Is it really possible to change one's life so easily? To travel miles and reach a place where you can really start afresh. Be the same person that you once were... The peace sign, the sun on the face, the touch of the leaves, the touch of the street dog, getting drenched in the rain and enjoying it...
I know that the past is still there inside me, but maybe new beginnings are really possible?
I always knew that touch has this amazing energy that allows one to feel the nature of connections with other people, but maybe similar things are possible with places? Maybe some places can have inviting energies, while some other simply tire us up?
I feel at home after a long time. Peace. Maybe it is not the same kind of peace as I experience while walking among the green palm trees, but peace is here around me. And it seems as if the city was inviting me to come.

I had a dream once... Always same dream that I stole while having tea under a tree...

Dream of a small room, a table, a chair, glasses, cats, window, lake, trees, school, he sitting by the table and writing, a little girl running and laughing while playing, 2 cups of tea...

Funny how Shakespeare once died for 50000rs salary... or was it 40000 rs course in modelling the emptiness?

But I'm here now and it feels as if travelling all those miles brought me closer to this dream again. Dreams are to be made and lived, not preached and forgotten.

The peace sign on a bag... I still have it, just like the memories of golden fields of the sunflowers when we all walked from a tiny station of a sleepy town.

W zyciu piekne sa tylko chwile... dlatego czasem warto zyc....

Simple story

Sometimes there comes a moment in life when one feels tired of constant running and all the unexpected spirals and turns that life brings, and needs a simple story. No speed. No lofty words. No dramatic events. Just simple words over a cup of chai. No additional characters. Just two people with their huge backpacks of experiences and fears and a long awaited story.
There once was a boy who had nothing, only the innocence of a child inscribed in his soul... And there was a girl who was entrapped in a cage of her fears and illusions. They've met once as children...
The girl got lost on a desert and the boy took her hand to help her find the way to the land where the trees were green, the parrots lived and many children laughed sitting under a huge thousand year old tree and listening to stories told by their hundred year old grandmother. Life seemed so peaceful there in this little oasis at the heart of the busy world.
Suddenly one day the children looked at themselves and realised that they suddenly grew up and entered the world of adults. The girl was scared of becoming an adult. It seemed to be a painful process of vivisection of her beliefs and values that she cherished, so everyday she started falling deeper and deeper into the cage that the world was preparing for her. Her long hair got entangled in a knot of thoughts that exploded one day when it could not bare itself any longer. She was desperately searching for the boy's hand, but he left in search of bread. He was an adult after all, and there was no space left in adulthood for green leaves, birds flying high in the sky and empty boxes that one could gift to each other. In adulthood one has to be serious and walk straight ahead without turning back at crazy memories of the childhood that one had.
The girl was lost again in life and there was no hand around her, but she was not an ordinary girl. She had an amazing gift of faith and hope that one day she would meet her childhood friend again to remind him of the stories they used to tell each other as children. Hope can sometimes be stronger than reality around us...
So even though it was unreal the girl took out a golden thread from her pocket and threw it up in the air... and she began to walk believing that the thread would lead her straight to the boy's feet... And so it did...
Sometimes life writes stories for us but sometimes we can write stories and scripts for ourselves too...
They sat in a small tea shop somewhere in the busy world not really knowing what to say to each other. So many years have passed... The silence and incoherent, unimportant words disturbed them. But it was not the words that were important. They did not meet for words... The boy looked at the girl and even though her face was that of a mature woman now she still had that smile that made him feel... How did it make him feel the girl wondered as she looked into his eyes observing her from behind glasses. She always used to smile at the thought of his short sighted eyes following her wherever she would go during their childhood days as if in fear that she may get lost somewhere in the desert and he will never be able to find her again. If his fear was that strong then why did he allow himself to become an adult? But there was no space for regrets, buts or ifs. It was only about them. The girl took out the golden thread out of her pocket and the boy was amazed to see how it's other end fell right next to his feet. He lift it up to pass it to her and their hands met... It's not the words but the touch and energies that we give to each other that are important.
 They left the shop holding each other hands... and now they are searching for their own green tree under which they could tell stories to thousand of children that pass by as they grow old together and each day brings new wrinkles to their hundred years old short sighted eyes... and they are still holding each other's hands...

Billi ki laash

I wrote this silly story few years back but last night I really experienced it.  I am so sorry cat... Loved you a lot...

Aaj maine sadak par ek laash dekha. Billi ki laash. Koi ajibsi billi thi yah jo na yaha ki thi, na vaha ki thi. Kahi beech ki thi yah billi, ya shayaad kahi ki nahi thi.
Sadak par billi ki laash.
Aisa laga ki billi kahi daurti thi bahut samay se. kaha dorti thi? Kaha se? kyo? Yah mujhe nahi maloom. Shayaad billi ko bhi maloom nahi thi. Shayaad daurna lakshya se zyada mahattvapoorn tha? Shayaad koi lakshya nahi tha? Shayaad na koi ant ana koi shooruvaad tha, shayaad daurne kea lava kuch bhi nahi tha… kisko pata?
Sadak par daurte hui billi ki lash.
Shaayad ab hi, mar jane ke baad billi ko pata chala ki daurne ka karan kyat ha? Ya shayaad yah hi pata chala ki koi bhi karan tha nahi. Sirf shunyata. Aur kutte. Shunyata aur kutte.
Sadak par daurte hue billi ki lash kutto ke beech.
Bahut sare kutte the aas paas. Kuch na kuch kutte apna safed daant dikha rahe the. Safed daant par khun ki choti si bundiya dikh rahi thi. Billi ka khun.
Sadak par daurte hue billi ki laash safed daantwale kutto ke beech.
Kuch na kuch kutte chup chap baithte the. Aisa lagta tha ki ve intazaar kar rahe hain. Jab dusre kutte billi ki laash apne daant se tod denge tab ye chup chap baithe hue kutte apne daant se billi ka dil chote chote tukdo me tod denge. Kha lege. Har khun ki bundi piyege.
Sadak par daurte hue billi ki laash safed daantwale kutto ke beech jo sirf khun ka intezaar kar rahe the.

„Mujhe paisa do! Koi mujhe paisa nahi deta hai!Mujhe paisa chahiye! Aaj do, kal do, apna sherwala uncle se mangvao paisa mere liye!” – Ek kutte ne bola.
„Mujhe apna sharir do! Mujhe sharir chahiye kisi ka” – dusre kutte ne bola, ya shayaad yah bhi us pahle kutte ki avaaz thi.
„Yah billi hai, koi kutta nahi! Usko yaha rahne ki zaroorat nahi hai! Bhaga do usko yaha se!!!” – ek kutti ki avaaz.
„Main us billi ko janta hu” – ek aur kutte ne bola – “main us billi ke saath khel raha tha pahle. Accha khel tha! Bahut accha! Main billi ko katta tha, bahut katta tha, itna katta tha ki uske sharer se khun nikalne laga. Is khun ka mahak kitna mitha tha! Aur bevakuf billi bar bar mujhe apna sharir ka kuch naya hissa dikhati thi katne ke liye! Kitna accha khel tha! Tum bhi khel sakte ho!.”

Billi ki laash ne jo sadak par thi achanak thoda sa hilne lagi. Shaayad vo abhi tak zindi thi yah billi? Usne aankh kholi. Kahi door dekh rahi thi yah billi. Aisa lag raha tha ki vaha kuch hai… kuch hai jo sirf billi dekh sakti hai… Shaayaad billi ko laga raha tha ki vaha door koi hai. Aisa koi jo hai. Aisa koi jo aaega. Uske haatth me lathi hoga aur vo sare kutto ko bhagaega vaha se. Shaayaad billi ko laga ki un kutto ke beech ek aadmi tha. Srishthi ka pahla aadmi. Srishthi ka pahla insaan jo janta tha ki insaan ko kabhi kabhi insane banna hai aur apne pagalpan me daurna hai kahi door.
Shaayaad billi ne kuch dekha vaha.

Kya vaha koi tha? Yah hum kisi se puchh bhi nahi sakte hain. Yah to sirf billi ki laash janti hai. Yahi laash jo sadak par hai kutto ke beech. Kutto ne kisi ko dekha nahi, lekin billi us taraf hi dekh rahi thi. Kya vaha sach me koi tha? Ya shaayad yah sir ek sapna tha jo billi ne marne se pahle dekha. Kisko pata?

Sadak par daurte hue billi ki laash ko jo safed daantwale kutto ke beech, jo sirf khun ka intezaar kar rahe the.

Sare kutte billi ke paas aae. Unke safed daant aur laal laal billi ka khun…
Safed aur laal.
Kutte aur billi.

4.48 Psychosis

I saw the reflection of her face in the mirror  in a dim light at exactly  4.48, when she stood with her wrists slit and the redness of her being dripping down on her white trousers. Love me, she said... Love me...
That's how I first met Sarah, and I've kept meeting her for so many years of my life... Night after night and day after day... Love me...
She kept waiting to be loved and I kept waiting for her to tell me whose love was she anticipating so much... Love me...
Until the day when I realised that it was me she kept calling, me she was waiting for, me she was needing. Love me...
She wanted me to love myself in her, something that she was incapable of doing herself. Something that I was not able to do for so many years. And what was stopping me? Sometimes it is so complicated to comprehend ourselves, our own needs and feelings.
Love me...
My wings might have been broken hundreds of times, but still I know I have the strength to fly again.
My body might have been torn into thousands of little pieces, but still I have the power to pull myself together.
My world might have been shuttered more than once, but still I exist.
And I don't want to run away from myself anymore. I want to stand in front of the mirror and whisper... I love you...

For myself and Sarah Kane.

Synchronicity

I am a magician in the greatest circus of the world. Each day I take myself out of my hat and place in front of you so that you could examine the wrinkled structure of my skin. The fears coiled at the bottom of my spine. The hopes trying to reach the sky like the balloons that a twelve year old child tried to sell to a half drunken crowd at 11 PM on the last night of the carnaval.
Sometimes I dig deeper in the hidden layers of my Jungian spheres of unconscious. I pulled out the feeling of insecurity the other day. It wore a sari and had long curly hair. We took the same bus together, but I decided to get down before seeing the turning face. The feeling left by the green DTC bus, but how much damage has it caused me in the past?
A rabbit of my low self-esteem was held by its otherwise dangling ears. He looked so funny in the center of the stage unable to squeak or move its legs while being held in the spot light. I let it hog on the grass as it began to complain about the pain at the back of the vertical axis of the body... or was it the horizontal axis of time? I heard him say that his back hurts.
I cast a spell and a street opened in the middle of the audience. The sign read it leads towards the eternal happiness, but my heart and feet chose to run over the black wire hissing, twisting and spiraling on its way to the lands of my dreams miles away from the reality.
I stood with eyes closed by the side of the street waiting for his arrival. My hand outstretched with a key to my heart, and that firm belief that one day he would return to find me. He would keep a gramophone to play the piano to the monkeys and I would follow him to the desert. And no... I will not see his FACE in a BOOK... He will come to say that he had seen me in a dream before. But they declared me mad and drove to the hospital instead.

The smell of a butterfly

She was walking through the city that day and somehow each end every smell reminded her of the decaying effect that city life had on society and culture. One more such stench and she might even vomit she thought. And to think that some creatures, whom we often don't even perceive as human, live all their lives picking up such dirt from under our noses. Do they constantly feel disturbed by the rotting values mixed with pieces of daily bread that the wealthy ones throw away from their windows? Or did they get used to their demeaning existence?
She wondered where did all the trees go, and then her eyes fell on two huge MCD dustbins. One was grey like the city around her, the other had the green colour of nature. Did they cut down all the branches and buried them in the trash? Uncivilised civilisation vs Organic nature. They burst some crackers after their cricket match last night, but she was not sure who the winner was.
Her thoughts drifted towards the boy who found her swimming in the river eons back. How peaceful and colourful their days were on the desert where he lived. She left her shadow far away and was just a little girl lost in the oceans of the world. But there was no danger involved. Only peace in the heart. Where was the boy today? Did he vanish together with the disappearance of a flight bound to nowhere? Was he still walking in the desert? Or did he lose himself in the wanton pleasures of the city?
As she was pondering so her feet came to a sudden halt. In the middle of a parking space there was a black and blue butterfly lying on the concrete. One of its wings was torn. She picked it up an kept on her palm. She was not sure what to do next but she knew she could not leave this flying painting of nature to a certain death under some heavy vehicle. She still had a vague memory of a film she watched many years back in which a dancing girl breaks her ankle and the magic of a puppeteer turns her into a butterfly. She could very easily identify herself with that girl and butterfly today.
A huge car stopped next to her and a wealthy mother of a fat child ordered in a high pitched voice "Could you please come here? He would like to see your pet. He has never seen a butterfly before, we still haven't taken him to the zoo."
Really? she thought... do you really need to go to the zoo to see a butterfly? You see, she would meet at least one butterfly each day. There were more butterflies around her than people she knew, and she could feel connected to the souls of those butterflies more than to direct ties that linked her with the outside world.
She thought of the boy again... would he think about her when he sees a butterfly? Or has he forgotten her completely?
She walked to the park and kept the butterfly on a small patch of grass next to some flowers. She did not want to go away, as if the magic of the butterfly captured her whole existence. She did not want to leave the colors and the wounded wing and dissolve herself in the world of those horrible stenches, fat children and the zoo with captivated animals.
She did not want to leave but she did...so that now she could sit with her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop to tell you the story of that day when she found a wounded butterfly in the busy market street.