The bird and its owner

And the bird caught itself between a thousand nightmares.
Standing on a cliff,
Falling free so it can be saved
Hanging on the tree, 
Suffocating itself so the soul can be free
Stuck between the pretentious security and the risky instability
Those wings are wounded.
Staying in an invisible cage
Being fed by sweet faked food
The bird is dying for something real it can digest,
And a real net to be home
The owner never knows his bird is dying,
The owner never knows the bird is wounded trying to be balanced on that wooden stick he put inside the cage.
Or maybe he knows.
“Loving himself more than anything else,
Keeping the bird on that shelf… ”
The man is selfish without knowing it.
The man sings for the bird
The man touches the bird
The man loves his bird
The man keeps the bird away from the cats
The man cries for himself seeing the bird gets sick,
What will make him feel good if the bird flies away?
The man is selfish without knowing it.
The man loves his bird,
He doesn’t know his bird, 
And he is not a bird.



It’s amazing how she can remember exactly how it felt like when the crust of the black bread touched her lips at 6 in the morning, the breadcrumbs are lying in the corner of her mouth, falling down on the pink floral sheet. It was messy.
She remembers drawing a butterfly on the tallest building, “bricks can also fly” – she said
She remembers watching Natgeo around 10 at night, the jaguar was tearing the deer’s flesh out of its bones. The light from the tv lied lazily on the bed, but the corner she stayed.
She remembers Lenny Kravitz yelling on the radio ” I wonder if I ever see you again…” in an autumn day. The blouse slid down on her body, she turned away.
She remembers talking over a cider on a January night, being surrounded by the irritating smell of cigars and the exhausting sound from the football match that was live streamed.
She remembers the sad look, the hands squeezing, the kiss on the forehead.
She remembers holding hands secretly in a party full of people, known and unknown.
She remembers driving together after tea time, walking all around her tiny world.
She remembers sitting in the bath tub, water running down from head to toes, looking over his back while he was brushing his teeth, she told him to get married. ” whom will marry me?” – that’s the answer.
She remembers the empty feelings, knowing that no matter how hard she tried, things would just remain the same.
She remembers the helpless feeling, knowing no matter how hard she tried, she could never make him happy.
She remembers standing alone in the shower, crying for the first time, feeling her heart squeezed for the first time, knowing love for the first time.
She remembers it was a long time ago, she can’t even remember it right: the time order, the occasion, the emotion, the feeling.
She remembers his face. She remembers his portrait. She remembers their photo taking together, she forgets many things but yet remembers a lot.
Then she realized time doesn’t erase, delete, remove. Time heals.
Love doesn’t disappear, change, transform. Love renews, just like a swollen muscle after training waiting to have enough nutrition to re-create a stronger version of itself, love is strengthened after time.
The new love is nothing like the old one but unique, beautiful, strong and passionate in it own way.
The person who comes after is nothing like the person who left but wonderful, gorgeous, special and loved.
She’s having an affair,
An affair with her past just to know how much she’s in love with the reality,
An affair with her past to finally look at those memories from the outside and cover them with a soft touch.
An affair with her past to know how hard it was suffering all those moments, so today she can cherish everything she has, love, and again open her heart to let love in.
She calls it home.

Let you go

I see myself touching the cactus with those red flowers next to the river.
I wonder if it’s dead or still alive?
I see Naruto with his undone sword on the crude sketch.
I wonder if it’s done or now covered in dust.
I see the reddish floral sheet on the wooden bed
I wonder if it’s now stained or replaced?
I see the green cup filled with homemade coffee everymorning
I wonder if it’s still full or now broken?
I see the burning cigarette dropping on the floor, 
I wonder if it’s cleaned or now more ashes 
I sense a familiar smell on the air,
And wonder if you still use the same smell,  or now you change.
I cry my heart out like that song of Oasis that I listened on a November night
I wonder if you ever cry? Or if you know the song.
I see myself lying on the wrong side of the bed, trying to take a nap.
I wonder if you’re sleeping?
I feel peaceful inside,  feel like home
And wonder if you are now happy with what you have
It hurts me seeing my own pain from the outside
And wonder if you ever know.
I look at myself in the mirrors,  look at other lives,
Wonder if you ever know I would be so depressed.
Sometimes,  I think about us
Wonder if it was real
And I know it was. It’s a real illusion.
And I realize that I don’t have to wonder anymore.
I’ve learned to be truly happy, 
To be ok without being pleased, 
To be happy for others people,
To please someone else without expecting anything from them.
I thought that you taught me nothing but pain.
But there is one thing, you taught me to be happy without you.
And now I am.
I no longer wonder everything about you.
I no longer wonder about what we were
I no longer wonder who I was.
I am now happy,
I now find where I belong to, 
And It’s not where you are.
I feel peaceful,  I feel loved,
And I know,
I really let you go.

The statue.

We never sit down to listen to a song,  to any song
I don’t know what is your favorite song, 
I don’t know if you ever listen to music.
But you hate loud music, 
You hate the ridiculous lousy beats,
So do I.

We never talk about books
I don’t know what is your favorite genre,
I don’t know if you read the thing I do.
But you hate chick flick.
So do I.

We never eat at restaurants together,
I don’t know what is your favorite food
I don’t know if you like my favorite food.
But you hate spicy food,
So do I.

We never hug
I don’t know if you like to cuddle
I don’t know if you like my hug
But you know the right time to do the right thing.

We never have passionate kiss
I don’t know if you like my kiss
I don’t know if you’re good at French kiss
But you know how important it is to have a kiss good night

We never talk about us
I don’t know if you know me
I don’t know if I know you
But you smirk when someone says they know who you are.
So do I.

We never interfere each other’s life
I don’t know if you’re sad today?
You don’t know if I’m not ok
You don’t care about inviduality,  personal thing,  label,  bullshit.
So did I.
But now I do.

It’s interesting knowing someone unknown, 
It’s interesting polishing a museum’s statue
It’s beautiful when it belongs to nobody,  it’s beautiful when you know it never belongs to you no matter how close you both can be,  in the museum
You take a photo with a Greek God’s statue,  keep it inside your heart,  knowing it has never been ugly,
The dead God on the other side of the bed.


The invisible man lies there on the bed,  all of his muscles are tiring from the hard trainings during the day. His mind is half empty,  or half full,  the visible woman has never asked. She gently runs her fingers on his back, lets her body lie on him to feel his soft and warm skin. They kiss, on the lips. The kiss stays on the lips with a secret glance from his eyes.
She’s surprised.
They are intertwined.
He kisses, on her lips,  and on her lips.
She kisses, on his head, and on his head.
They love it,  knowing each other long enough to know how to touch the other in the dark, inside out.
The destination is clear,  the way is vague, the time is over, the scar is born.
They both come,  to see the blooming sakura inside the plastic tower.
That’s visible.
The woman is visible, with her tears streaming down seeing the naked beauty of that sakura tree.
The man is still,  invisible,  he holds her and disappears, he’s there,  but Noone around her can see.
He’s a ghost, he’s invisible, he’s so close but yet so far.
His existence was then visible but now invisible.
The pain she has was then invisible but now visible.
He’s now visible and tomorrow being invisible again.
She knows,  she accepts, she’s obsessed, she’s haunted,  by a ghost.
He’s a ghost.
They love. An invisible love that could never be visible.
Life goes on,  he will just fly away with the blue sky tomorrow. It’s irresistible.

Dear the 11 years old me.

Dear the 11 years old me,
Just so you know,  it’s the first day of 2016 and I’m pretty sure you could never predict whom would you be and whom would you see at the age of 21 right?
So I’m telling you that you’ve grown up into an older version of you,  chubby still,  not as white as before,  capable of using the left hemisphere of your brain but also know science ( the 16 years old you went to a gifted school and specialized in biology,  are you proud?),  tough but fragile and emotional as f*ck no matter how hard the 12 years old you tried to train itself.
You loved, well, still,  you love.
Love is not that amazing like what you think,  but it’s not disgusting either. It’s a complex feeling,  like how you felt back then in the 2nd grade when you bit the chalk instead of the biscuit. You wanted to laugh because of the situation you was in- doing such a stupid thing as human nature without being aware of it and at the same time,  you wanted to cry since it was you who fooled yourself. The chalk was bitter remember? But you still ate the biscuit after washing your mouth and spitting all the dust out. You make mistakes,  you learn and you grow. Love is just like that,  it’s beautiful either way.
Responsibility is not scary like what you think, yes I know it’s overwhelming,  but the 21 years old you has it attached on her mind,  facing and taking it as a challenge of life. She is,  well,  sometimes,  selfless.
She has friends,  many friends,  good friends,  close friends,  best friends,  boy friend. She has real friends. She is not bullied anymore,  and she learns that all the bullying which you, your 12,13 and 14 years old self suffer is a part of her today. That’s what shapes her personality and the armour she has. She did hate it,  be bitter about it,  complain about it,  be haunted because of it. She could not forgive nor forget. She denied to see the ugly scar she had inside that has never been healed. But lately she’s appreciated for it,  confronts it,  and looks at it,  bravely. She’s healed, or at least, she’s being sarcastic instead of being bitter which does bring laughter to some people if you look at its positive side.
By the way
She’s not a doctor,  nor a zoologist,  nor an engineer. She’s not in Paris,  nor California,  nor Moscow. She’s just a normal linguistic student in her last year with lots of fears,  worries,  creative ideas,  interesting relationships and some achievements that make her happy sometimes. She knows some languages,  more than you can ever imagine or think of. You’re not even good at English,  are you? But don’t feel sad,  languages are not something you can learn over night,  later on in life,  you will find that passion and motivation you need to really learn things you love without any frustration. I know that the 12 years old you feels so left out and useless when it goes to the English class and being underestimated by that silly kid who thinks that she’s good at English. I’m telling you that you will feel better,  and strong,  and push yourself to do better. You are a tough kid. I’m very proud of you.
She’s not a woman like how you imagine. But she has your smile,  bright and can warm up someone’s heart. She still has you brown eyes,  full of curiosity and reflects the beautiful world around her. She cries sometimes and her eyes get very red like those marks on your body whenever you’re beaten. But trust me,  the physical pains are nothing comparing to the mental pains. She does feel bad sometimes to let you become a depressive young adult. But hey,  don’t hate her yet,  she still sees the virtue and  beauty of life , that’s the thing you should know about her. Besides,  she has a big heart and don’t mind throwing  her selfishness to the trash can in order to help people out.
However,  she’s really sarcastic,  her jokes are funny but crude. She always shows up wearing either a cold bitchy indifferent mask or a stupid one. I know you enjoy the shows people play,  she does too,  she has some good laugh whenever people label her or try to label her. But then,  just like how you are,  she knows it’s important to keep herself out of the play,  being direct,  honest and sincere no matter how much people dislike it. And don’t you worry,  she’s lucky enough to find those who accept her for who she is. So at the end of the day,  no matter how lonely she is,  she knows that she’s not alone.
She thinks of you sometimes, 
She wants to thank you.
Thank you for not killing yourself  that autumn afternoon,  so she’s still alive now and trying her best to live,  learn and love.
Thank you for enjoying the meaning of life and all the simple things around you,  for all those times you spend on the hill behind your little house finding veggie to eat,  for being happy every morning on the way to school even your stomach is empty and you never have pocket money like other kid.
Thank you for enduring all the bad times,  the verbal bullies,  the physical bullies,  the rejection,  the coldness and the loneliness.
Thank you for learning how to be an adult at a very young age,  for giving up all your joy,  your innocence and your choice to be a kid in order to be a dad,  a mom and a big brother.
Thank you for not bragging about it like a ridiculous pathetic childish girl.
Thank you for studying well at school and keeping your passion for art.
Thank you for being strong at the darkest time,  for not giving up at the situation you’re in,  for being a kid with an old soul.
Thank you for having a good heart that unfortunately you have never had the gut to admit it.
Thank you for being understanding and always being there for people when they need.
Thank you for being a wonderful little person who still stays inside her and grows up with her in time.
Another year has gone,  and she’s here now thinking about what she has done and has not. She thinks that she should thank you,  because of you,  she changed at the age of 11…
Happy new year,  from the 21 year old you.