On Luxury.

How luxuries change over the years.
Circumstances! - not generational, even.
Age! - not income, to a certain degree.

How the growth line of luxury hits a flat line when its life source is sucked to its core.

Time. Oh Time is of the essence, my dear. Offline is not the new luxury, time is.

You can bundle up all the worlds most luxurious goods and gadgets and bags and cultural events, but they all implode in their nothingness if time is a fugitive.

Time to think. Time to read. Time to breathe.

It all depends on time.

Time to sing, time to love - time to have Time.

Time is the new luxury and we are all out of it - rummaging through expenses and gasping for satisfaction, throwing them all around in desperation, climbing the endless ladder, racing on a treadmill.

Give time to time, my dear. Its always been by your side.

Oh, Silence.

I sit in silence, a state of reality I once abhorred. I sit in both silence and pleasure listening to sounds I had long forgotten. My heart beat. The jingling of the necklaces I superstitiously never dare remove afraid all that I have is result of underserved luck. 

The rumble of turned off technology.

I sit in silence and I finally appreciate its oxymoronic filled emptiness.

The phone rings and shatters the thin crystals of peace that rapidly formed, hastily, knowing they are but temporary embryos dying to live in clocks moved merely by ignited instances. Ignoring the phone and whisper to those newly befriended crystals, that they don't have to be afraid and may come back to me. I love you now, I say – ungrateful me! One who until this day despised their free peace bringing offer.

Silence, oh dear silence. Let me mingle in your abyss without paying permanent rent. Let me enwrap my whole beaten body in your silky winds. I promise I’ll let you come unannounced and listen to your voiceless infinity.

Silence, I love you now – I say.   

Some Words on Dancing

Some words on dancing are never enough. Some say dancing is like poetry, with arms and legs; I believe, and feel, it’s vastly more than that.  Dancing steps in, when words don’t suffice. Two steps in one direction, at a particular chosen rhythm, a turn or a twist in another, showing some explosion of emotion, can say a whole lot more, than this entire paragraph.

To dance is to enter your own world, where senses grow stronger, where reality brushes away. Music tingles through your nerves, notes extended through your limbs, beats carried on by each and every single movement. Dancing feels like the perpetuation of music, the silent voice that translates it. 

Secretly watching someone dancing alone, is similar to reading a diary. However, in this particular diary, the reader does not get lost in between useless words, misplaced punctuation or spelling mistakes. It’s human emotion in its essence. In its purest of forms. 

On Certainty

Certainty is never certain. It is never absolute. You can always question all things you believe to be certain. It only depends on how thoroughly you question it, or how much proof you need, as an individual, to take something as certain.

What people do to be able to endure hardship, or maintain an acceptable level of happiness is to stop questioning once they reach a boundary they dare not cross. To all those who have no boundaries - either they do not achieve a stable state of happiness, or they accept the impossibility of absolute certainty.

Where does the line cross between what can be taken as certain or what should be exhaustively questioned, and thus considered an uncertainty?

Such a question has a different answer for each and every individual. 

I prefer to accept uncertainty. I prefer to stare it right into the face, and embrace its beautiful existence. Without uncertainty, there is boredom. Things are taken for granted, easily known, easily understood. I like to question. It keeps me alive, it keeps my brain going. It reaches out to new possibilities, to different realities to the one I strongly grasp onto.

What I take as certain, in a relative sense, is that which I cannot fathom could be otherwise, and in the emotional realm, what I feel to be right, to be true. I do not spend time wondering if I am just a brain in a jar – because if I am, there is no amount of questioning that will suffice to allow me to reach such conclusion. I accept I cannot know for certain.

Can I be certain that this person loves me? No, I cannot. I like to believe so – I feel it. I gather information that leads me in the direction of that truth. But I can’t ever be certain. And that is okay.

It is acceptable to not be sure. To know, but without absolute proof. Unfortunately, or even fortunately (we cannot know for certain), we are limited in how much we can truly know.

There will always have to be something we take as a given – that is if and only if, we do not want to spend the rest of our days questioning things that can’t possibly be known. 

On Reading.

Does it ever happen to you,to read, and feel the words escaping through the thousands of whispers in your mind? You become aware of this and attempt to focus. Staring at a page trampled with syllables, filled to the brim with ideas and yet, you're in your own parallel reality. Was the author of that one text thinking the same, whilst attempting to engage in some other piece?

I try to listen to his voice, the echoes of his thoughts whilst writing, the smell of the already gone cold coffee , being slowly sipped, in between bursts of sentences. I stare at the constellation of words, how they march one after the other. These words belong to him - I'm trying to adopt them so they make sense to me too.Was he in a good mood? Why did he not use a comma in that specific place? A page I read and absorb in a minute, was thought about, carefully delivered and apparently lost in translation. 

Just like this text.

On The Word "Love".

It is harder to put musings down on paper, than to shout out emotions, scream, cry or just lay still in a deep twistedcurrent of thoughts. However, sometimes the actual action of re reading what one wrote, creates a clearer perspective,opens the soul. The sight of the empty page before you might be quite daunting ; it can provoke introspection just tostare at it, and that's the beauty of writing just for the hell of it.

At times, its enjoyable looking at the constellation of syllables, vowels, letters, and phonetic effects of which words are made out of. Take the word Love for instance. It sounds weaker than what it holds the meaning of ; its one of the mostvaluable words in our vocabulary, and yet its only made out of four letters. Doesn't creating a word for such a feelingreduce the thrusting power, the heart aching, the intrinsic energy of such emotion?

The answer is yes it does. And even though the phrase “words mean less than actions” is a typical cliché, this wordshould never be said, unless there is nothing else left to say or do, that can prove your feelings true. I myself say it all the time. Write it down automatically at the end of text messages, say it over the phone, say it before going to sleep. Itseems to be the escape of being unable to define what you really feel for a strange soul. The word LOVE entails athousand other emotions, and it seems to be our best option for summarizing all of the good sentiments we have for our“loved ones”.

Love seems to be, for those who think they are acquainted with the essence of not only the word itself but the feeling,the lack of words, the dumbstruck state of mind in which someone may find themselves in. The vacant place wherelanguage finds it limit. Mankind has yet to develop a way of describing exactly what Love really is, means or feels like.

Here we go back to the empty page. To the daunting white. No words. No scribbles. No art or literature, just the emptypage. The reflection of ones soul when in love. The commotion of feelings provoked by Love. It is easier to hand in an empty page, than attempting to illustrate, with all the beautiful words our vocabulary is composed of , and say “ What Ifeel for you, just can’t be said”. Though Shakespeare in “My mistress is like a rose(…)” enthralls us in his poetry, the attempt is still lousy. Not only can Love not be described, it means something different to every Man, and hence, havingone universal word for it, its just not good enough.

The effort to explain and demonstrate Love, is endless, and commendable. Its the best we can do, and yet we cannottruly expose our soul to a strange entity. Sometimes you wish you could pick up that persons hand and direct it to yoursoul - let them touch it - so they can try to feel what you feel, under your skin.

Though we can’t describe it, though it is completely unattainable and unexposed, it can still be felt during those raremoments of life, when you could swear you saw someone's soul through their eyes. Being the eyes the windows to one's soul, they seem to be able to convey and transmit emotions in a way no word ever could.

You can try to scream, to run a million miles, to write the worlds most literate and profound poem, but nothing willcompare to one moment of silence in which two souls battle against the barriers of our physical world, and poeticallyattempt to intertwine. When presented with love, souls will act in the same manner as a magnet; opposite poles graspingground to meet, to touch, to come into contact.Then place a thin sheet of translucent paper between those two magnets. And that's the physical world acting as anopposing force, as a tyrant who prohibits two lovers to love.

No meditation, no self introspection, not even a life spent with that matching soul will allow you to truly know them, tofeel entirely connected. Maybe in another life things will be different. Souls will be able to fuse; intentions andemotions lit up, and acknowledged. But not in this world. The wind continues to blow against out faces, fate continuesto seem complex, Love still seems to be our best word, our best expression.And when re reading this, be it you or I, introspection will be felt, and that's the beauty of writing just for the hell of it!

- VEC 2009