Whatever appears to leave us, actually does not leave…Whatever appears to stay with us, actually does not stay.
Everything is a mystery of constant gain and loss, where only tears and broken dreams find our heart at dusk.
Between going and staying, the day wavers; in love with its own transparency… All is visible and elusive, all is near and can’t be touched; for all people and things rest in the shade of their names…
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
A neon-blue sky illuminates this winter evening… I sit quietly, resting in the dissolving day, while the streetcars pull movie-goers, bar-hopping, junkies, lovers and tourist to and from the urban core. All around the city hums, alive, but thousands others, behind paned glass, are fused to the flicker of television.
I run a lens over a canvas, to blossom flowers of emptiness and spread the fragrance of the dimensionless figure you handed over me in a crowded street of despair .
I own a pen, too, and hatch words of sorrow to fill my unbearable void… But I still miss, thousand miles away, to even frame the picture of your shadow.
I travel through people and their sad stories, with a bag full of outrageous blessings on a quest for truth; while a dream of hidden death is embedded in my pictures, drenched -like flowers- in nectar of tears… For I know that suddenly, in a smile of pain, my heart will bleed and wane to a cold, pathetic bye.