The Problem With Magic

The Problem With Magic
The Problem with Magic Thank you, Mladen and WritertoWriters

 

There is no such thing as magic.

Not anymore…

Real magic is extinct.

I haven’t seen any since, huh. I can’t remember since when. Odd… Come to think of it, it’s nearly two thousand years. I remember Alexandria. Wait, no. No. That’s not right.

The last time I recall sensing magic was in the Middle Ages. It isn’t a good, nor a very successful one. It’s more of a petty attempt to hide money.  The man, in his third decade, speaks the words. A carney. Sloppy and slurred words, no meaning where it should be. He doesn’t know what he says.

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tiger, burning… (3)

tiger, burning… (3)
Part 1 - The Cold Mountain

Part 2- Tea with Jade and Tiger

PART 3

MONKEY ON THE ROAD

The silhouette of San Chou gleams between the three green hills of the southern part of the Yellow River. Like a hungry locust reaches a rice paddy, I reach San Chou, five days after Jade, Tiger and I part at my father’s house. My father is Zhang Dee Yang, the most honored governor of Li Jiang. His high hopes are resting on my shoulders. Jade and Tiger, his friends come along to help me complete my mission.

Continue reading “tiger, burning… (3)”

London Dispersion Force

London Dispersion Force

*

Gray comet ice melting in green ocean water,

that’s what your eyes remind me of… salty cold.

Our time, the bright of friction heat and falling,

the mess, this ‘us’ refuses to be –

I remember, grasping, understanding, holding,

clinging – all the same to me: believing, hoping,

My love can keep both of us safe, I’m sure

becoming haven to stormy waters…

And the comet crashes. Burning, bleeding,

consuming all I have to give, and all I am

My hull  keeps you company,  memory of warmths

I have lost, I crumble…

and let you go…

I let you live, to find your own idea of… happiness


 

inspired by ‘Hold on‘ by Jacob Ibrag

thoughts on shuffle

thoughts on shuffle

There are places, which make me stop and think for a while.

A lot of these places are in Japan… I can’t say it’s just the small little streets and corners. Sometimes it’s a crowded place in Kyoto, or a nearly empty little street in Shibuya, a playground in Minami Nagareyama, a JR ferry in Hiroshima… They differ from each other so greatly, that I wonder if they are even on the same planet – which obviously they are.
Maybe it is a simple panic attack, or derealization experience I had…
Only, if it wasn’t for that deja-vu… 

I’ll be more precise.

The feeling they give me, makes me stop. Suddenly I have not enough breath in my lungs and my feet stretch to touch the core of the planet. A weird kind of buzzing fills the space between my ears…

I’ve been here before, haven’t I?

And then I’m empty. It is some kind of blankness. A cold sensation in my stomach. I start to doubt that I’m hermetically locked into my skin. For a moment I’m sure there is a hole somewhere. Something ripped through me, and I didn’t notice. I’m leaking. Or maybe the world is seeping into me. I know it will squeeze me into my every pore, into every wrinkle of my being, pushing me to the outer rim of what uses to me be…

Movement stops.

I fall.

At least, I think it is some kind of falling sensation. A random plummeting to the ground. Downward sucking notion, but without the wet kissing thud at the end. Without hitting any surfaces, without the crashing and breaking, without the impact… Just falling. 

In those moment – I have hope. Hope to find my purpose, my place in the world I inhabit. The hunch I need to grasp the meaning behind all this…being-human thing. It is almost a fully formed thought, a nearly recognized feeling.

I have been here before, haven’t I? 

Isn’t it ironic? I can’t seem to realize it…

desire flashbacks

desire flashbacks

Why is it, that suddenly everything starts to gravitate towards the edge?
Those jagged edges of the you-shaped hole chew away my reality.

I let my fingers, thoughts and heart brush over it. Just to be sure, it is there. I’m not imagining it. Not imagining you.

Sharp. I cut myself remembering you. Missing you… Returning to the same spot. Hurting again.

Sometimes it’s a cracking sound, sometimes a wet ripping… Sometimes the gut twisting silence I’m forced to listen to.

And then… What a relief! There you are! Behind my eyelids. You move. Somewhere. Somewhere far away. You stir. The perfume of your skin, your lips and that wicked happy-to-deadly smile flash back, blind me.  Freeze me. Stop me. Stop my time. That smile…

It burns.

Why is it, that your pull influences my days and nights, my every dusk and dawn?

Why can’t I sleep? Not in our bed, only cramped on the sofa or at the dining table?

The emptiness beside me rips me into waking. Drags me back into the cold and the light… Another day…

Why is it, that I dream of the touch of your fingertips? That I phantasize your movements, next to me, under the sheets… Your breathing… Why can’t it be otherwise? My life… Only without you.

Still.

Your sweet humming and singing keeps me company. In my head, your voice comments and laughs, as if amused; points out the little details you used to notice…

Why can’t I move on?

the name of the morning star

the name of the morning star
I’m in love with the morning star.

This is not only about me, my stories, or my search.

It’s about the sky and the stars, and everything behind that deep blue void. Behind that distance, the stone cold space, deprived of… meaning?

No.

That’s not right.

It isn’t the lack of meaning.

It is me, always ending up with the question after some sense. I keep missing it. Not the space. The sky above my head lacks a subjective viewer. Which is not a deficiency.

Well, how should I explain? I’ll try to make it simple…

I’m in love with the morning star. This would be my first line, if I were to sum up my life in three sentences.

All began with a poem I once heard, very long time ago. I can’t recite it to you. Different reasons. Firstly I was very young- too young to remember correctly, second – it’s in a foreign language I cannot translate properly.

The poem was about a prince, always looking up into the starlit sky. It was always a bright star, which attracted his attention. A bright star with light, sparkling like silver or precious gems, a fire, which he thought it, was different from all the others. That light touched his heart, and he dreamed, that that star was a beautiful woman with silver hair and a face white, shining like frozen snow in moonlight. Her glowing eyes made his pulse rush. And even before he could utter a word, he woke up.

For him, this was a sign. He knew that feeling inside his chest, the heat in his cheeks. It was called love. But of all things on earth, he fell in love with a star. He was happy, he knew love. But then he knew sorrow too. Day and night, he thought about those burning eyes, the white hair, the sparkling skin of her. The entire day he didn’t leave his new room in the highest tower of the palace, dozing like a cat, barely eating or drinking, spending the nights at the window, admiring the sky.

Oh, how he was jealous of all birds and insects with their ability to fly. He wrote poems, draw what he remembered of her, painted her face – trying to capture that unique fire.

Again he dreamed of her. His star. She had a sad look on her face. This time he spoke to her, recited a few verses from his poem. She smiled at him and nodded. “I love you,” he said, hoping for an answer. Her eyes brightened. He woke up.

 

 


– part 2: Love and sacrifice are only meant for mortals

bad guy good luck

Did you ever ask yourself, why the good ones get the kick in the teeth? And the bad ones get that friendly clap on the shoulder?

It´s what they wish for themselves. Fate is an ancient fairy godmother, with  bad hearing, and bad sight. Sensing only the subconscious wishes – I’m worthless, I’m repulsive, I want to die, I need to be punished, I don’t deserve this…

“Well, if you wish my dear. BAM!”

Your TV explodes. The car dies. You lock yourself out of your apartment. Your  promotion goes to the next best guy. Your boy/girlfriend leaves you with nothing than the bad milk in the fridge. Your cat runs away…  

– It stings. It does.

You don´t have to tell me! That slap on your face,  leaving a burning mark for months. And you feel like a kicked dog, left outside, wet, hungry and freezing. 

And there are others. Yes, others. Cheating, deceiving, blackening, badmouthing, shamelessly – effortlessly- falling up the ladder. Cashing in. Those bastards…

Look at you! You are either smiling or feeling disgusted.