It's philosophical*

What we have is conceptual
To the point that it could have never existed

If I turn my back and leave the room, right now
Nothing will change
No transformation
No regrets, no remorse

Not even a thought would be given by any of us
Regarding the abrupt amendment in our situation

What we have is conceptual
To the point that it could be whatever we wish it to be

But it will always remain abstract
An idea, distanced from our two objects of being

Hysteria: in colloquial use, unmanageable emotional excesses

I am not hysterical. I do seem weird. To some people. During specific periods of time.
I am not hysterical. Yet. I do have moments of extreme emotions. Affecting my sense of reason.
But those are just moments. Moments. At least in my own perception of time.
And during those moments. I find myself. Straying from the norm.
I find myself. On a different cloud. Flying higher. And higher. And higher.
Until I am alone.
Looking down.
Laughing.
Hysterically.
At what I am leaving behind.

Perspective*

Photos courtesy of C.L.

Electronic nights

Photos taken at a local band's gig: Mashrou' Leila - July 29, 2011
http://mashrou3leila.com/

On natural growth

You cannot force something that doesn’t exist
Into existence
Something that is not processed by the inner self
To be out, visible and exposed
To the outer world
Of the individual.
Or of the nation.

You cannot force democracy in Afghanistan
Nor you can force a ring around the finger of a gamophobiac
You cannot force a relationship with someone who already established a relationship with himself

It has to grow by itself
In itself
As a newborn… with all the endurance it has to go through
In order to make the perfect first step

A poem in the writer's shoes

A poem does not write itself
No matter how alive it can seem
No matter what disguise it puts on
The red lipstick, the long copper hair
Or the most arousing smell ever

A poem cannot write itself
Without the senses of the writer
It will wear her lipstick, her hairdo
And her perfume
It will adopt her personality
Walk the way she walks
And be still whenever the writer’s senses
Decide to retreat to the real world

On endless Fridays

Fridays are like being trapped in a purgatory
with one foot in heaven and the other in hell

Yerevan

Part one

The city is sleeping
But I am not
I haven’t downed too much alcohol tonight
To put me straight in Sandman’s Land

The city is sleeping
But how could she sleep?
Can’t she realize what is going on around her?
Can’t she see that the world is changing?
The whole universe is changing…

Doesn’t she feel fear?
Can a city be this cold blooded?
How can she simply close her eyes
And disconnect from everything around her?

This oblivious city
Turning her back on past and present
Turning her back on me

This oblivious city
I envy for her peace of mind


Part two

As the city sleeps
I sit in my bed
Daydreaming about walking in the empty streets
Fantasizing about a breathe of cool air
Stroking my face
Lingering between the thin threads of my hair
While my bare feet are being soaked
Of streets wet of summer rain

As the city sleeps
I feel betrayed
I sit still and wonder
Who will be keeping me company tonight?

Emptiness in a box*

Today I feel the emptiness inside adding up
Soon enough it is going to flood from inside
Float, pour outside my skin, and surround my body
Soon enough I am going to bathe in it

Feeling hollow on the inside is one thing
And swimming in a pool of nothingness is another
I cannot tell which is worst

The old me would say: soon I will color the void around me
Carve it with smiley faces and happy shapes

But I am not feeling this urge anymore

My refuge is grey space, a fragile box I reside in
And a mental trip to a past, altered enough
That I can no longer retrieve memory from imagination

The poem that came to life

The poem was lying there. On the bed, between us
It wasn’t complete yet. It was forming itself
Trying to fill in the blank, created by our silence
The poem had a mind of its own
I am not sure if it was waiting for us to create its story line
Or if it was forming a story on its own
Telling about this couple
Lying on the bed
And watching a poem being formed
Silently