A little piece of unreality.

A little piece of unreality keeps us sane in the evenings, in the darkness. To wish to be everywhere that you can't be, to kiss every man that's not good for you.

In a city of saints and and sinners, you choose to be with sinners and step into a bucket full of worms without hesitation. Anything to get you through the night, waking up with a headache that erases whatever that has happened.

You can keep a secret, right?

E.Y

Hush

What did I do? No, don't say.
Allow me to go through the different scenarios, the spoken and unspoken words.
The hours are tasteless when the tension and the spark in our worlds collide.

I gently beat myself around the bush from a truth I can't handle.

E.Y.

The missing photos.

I couldn't find them, the photos taken 3 years ago, from a trip I had been longing for all my life.
There were fifty seven of them. I can still remember every frame, every agony caused by the city of my dreams; the city of neon lights.

I was deceived by my delusional state of mind, not knowing what life was good for me. My soul was homeless and had no substitute for belonging. Every picture taken in every corner, from every angle, was coming back to me as the autumn of grief.

The bright colours appeared black and white with the shades blurred between fantasy and reality.

E.Y

You and me forever.

It was Saturday morning. She was picking up wet towels from the bathroom floor and throwing them in the laundry basket. Again and again, she was tidying up after vandals and plunders that call themselves a man. She resented it.

Lately, she had stopped singing in the shower and was deeply absorbed in thoughts. Certain things were like a bad hangover, you always wish you hadn't done it. But a weak moment always steers our actions and we always end up paying for it.
She should have ignored the calls and learnt from before. Whatever you gain, you lose more.

Besides the mess they created, they were always so damn hungry. She dreaded moving on to the kitchen and face the dirty dishes. She brought with her the morning paper, took a quick look at dirty dishes and made an "ack" sound before she sat down at the kitchen table with her wet hair hanging over her shoulders.

A front page article got her attention. "A woman died at the age of 94." it said. She started browsing through the article.
Who was this woman? "94 years old_rich_never married."
Rich,; why else would she make it to the front page? There was always something interesting about old Upper Manhattan women who sat on a fortune, but lived discreet lives.
How was it possible to have lived almost a century alone? There was something majestic about her posture in her picture, yet in contrast with her liberated smile. To come to terms with her own needs and desires and just embraced life the way it was.
However, there was glory in defeat?

After reading the article, she gets up from her chair, her slippers making scuff-scuff sounds as she walks towards the mirror to take a glance at her face which always seems so alienated in the mornings.
She stares at own reflection in the mirror; It's just you and me, forever baby.

E.Y.

Blur.

No, I'm not searching for you anymore. I look at the pavement when I walk and always focus directly to one person when I talk. I don't stammer when I smell your scent or hear a voice similar to yours.

Regardless of the blur in my eyes , my laughter fills rooms and streets like a joyous response to my destined misery.

Blueprint.

They would laugh at her, when she said she felt a hundred years old. But she already knew how things would end.
History was like a broken song track, needed to be started from the beginning and adding a new scratch every time.
There was light at the end of the tunnel but at the end of the light, there was another tunnel.

Explaining was even worse than listening to people who were content with themselves. A so-called merited authority to give advice about everything and nothing, as if there was a blueprint for life.

E.Y.