Translation I

R, how did the constant monotony of your forlorn days pass? When your light faded behind the perplexing fabric of sorrow.

Tell me about your confusing adolescence, the innocent seclusion of your hands.

Did you know that beneath the fire of your woe, your tormenting tears, lay the answer to why silver lakes shine?

R, now, with me by your side, dare to let go. Accord with the essence of light.

Learn to fade in the hermetic serene.

At this moment, my R, you are in efflorescence.

Nostalgia I

The asthenic winter sun shone on the snow crested path that I walked on once a week to get to the mountain. As I walked among the trees, the sleeping giant started to dominate the December sky. The golden field of wild dried grass, randomly uniform, luminous and redolent, reminded me of her skin. Candescent while nature was at It's seasonal halt. As I approached the mountain, the single entity that spawned lucidity for me at those days, frosty swelled rocks became more frequent.

As I climbed the small hill, the frigid city became more visible, just to fade into the nothingness I wanted it to become with a simple turn of my head. patches of green grass amongst the grey rocky background were soothing to the eyes that had teared up in the face of the wild winter wind which froze anything that defied it. As the sun that sat around 5:30 in the afternoon on those days was dying off, the eastern paper moon had gained flight, and I reached the apex.

Mountain after mount, stones frozen in time and space faded into the afternoon sky. My bones ached and my face was numb but I couldn't care. The measly I had reached the mountain top to see the sight of the grand peaks afar, to be reminded of just how trivial he truly was.

The Terminal

   Two minutes to midnight, according to the numbers that dwelled beneath the cracked screen of my phone. At this point I had waited for the bus, that clearly was not coming, for about twenty minutes.
Having been possessed and ensnared by cheap demons who did not allow me to spend forty bucks for a cab ride, I was left with only one choice. 
   I gazed at the gigantic building that was reflecting the full moon's light, masterfully so, as the building's white arched edges were intertwined with the clouds above. I took the lift and entered the Terminal. The appearance of a terminal at midnight is quite predictable. A single person stretched on a row of seats that were intended to accommodate four. Children running around their weary parents. Luggage everywhere. Waiting. Just waiting. This is how people get old, I thought to my self.
   I sat down at a corner table in the only cafe open in the whole terminal. The white clock that was hanging above the sleeping African showed 12:10. I knew that the first bus in the morning comes at 7. I ordered a cup of coffee and opened my book (Trauma by Patrick McGrath).
   By 3:00 I have had another cup of coffee, finished my book and was observing the night life of the terminal. The children had fallen beside their dozing parents. The few Europeans present were head-deep in their tablets. The cleaning crew had decided to take a rather long smoke break. The moon was at the opposing side of where it was when I came in. As my non existing audience has by now came to expect from me, what I was looking for, and as usual, did not find, was meaning. At least nothing more grand than waiting. Waiting as the meaning of a scenario, since it was all this whole night represented.
   By 5:00, to scape the mind-numbing monotony of a terminal at halt, I sat next to the east window and watched the sky for the first bright spear of sunlight to appear. To laugh at the sunrise since you've been up all night is a paroxysm that I think is the manifestation of something that one can call pride.
   Two hours later, as I boarded the surprisingly crowded bus I thought to myself, perhaps waiting is necessary. Perhaps for our mind to out-run our body. Or maybe so a bad writer can have something to write about.

The Last Day

The clock stroke 2:00. having finished the paper I put my pen down. 15 more minutes until my last exam was done. I glimpsed at the hill through the class window. A small black bird challenged my depth perception that had worsened with my astigmatism, the distorted glass wasn't much of a help. Meanwhile my sense of time was shaken by a simple question, how did it pass so quickly?

In that 15 minutes i found my self looking for meaning. Expecting a moment to have a certain meaning just because it marks the end of something drastic. Having trouble finding any I realized that lack of meaning in moments we wish were defining but pass like any other, might make us think about ourselves as irredeemable. Perhaps that's why many detest change. Also, why those who don't need meaning embrace this trend of instability. As one of my friends says: Don't be a warm comfy sheep!